


The Landing

by anneapocalypse



Series: The Drop [3]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, BDSM, Canon Disabled Character, Canonical Character Death, Dissociation, Dom/sub, F/M, Healing, Major Character Injury, Medical Procedures, Red Team Nonsense, Reunions, Rope Bondage, Sign Language, Slow Burn, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-11
Updated: 2018-09-28
Packaged: 2019-04-24 04:36:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 21
Words: 98,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14348088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anneapocalypse/pseuds/anneapocalypse
Summary: Maine sinks in the water and waits to die, wanting nothing more than for everything to be over. But there is something in his mind, some spark left behind, that will not let him rest.





	1. Live

**Author's Note:**

> This is the final fic in a trilogy. You should definitely read the first two first.
> 
> Obligatory reminder that this is a work of fiction whose primary purpose is to entertain you as a story. Please do not take any part of this fic as a trustworthy and true-to-life representation of medical procedures, trauma recovery, BDSM, or anything else.
> 
> Please do read the tags for warnings. In particular, warning for gross scary medical shit, and persistent symptoms of trauma. If you made it here through The Fall, though, I can tell you the worst is just about over.
> 
> If you need to know in advance what the Major Character Death and Suicide tags are doing there, [click here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14348088/chapters/34293591#chapter_5_endnotes).
> 
> Many, many thanks to my beta reader [Larissa](http://archiveofourown.org/users/larissa) for reading multiple drafts of this fic and cheering me on since the beginning. Thanks to [tuckerfuckingdidit](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tuckerfuckingdidit) for being a wonderful cheerleader and always believing in me and my story. And thanks to the RvB discord servers for being a hub of creative energy and meta conversation.
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
>  **Notes for minor pairings** :
> 
>   * Wyoming/Florida
>   * Kaikaina/Tucker
>   * Donut/Doc
> 


**Ι**

_Live._

 

Silver-blue, little sparks of yellow light. Swaying, a push-pull motion, limbs loose. Taste of copper, water, metal and cold. Pressure even and enveloping. Stuttering one-two beat, soundless and heavy.

Drift. Sway. Sink. Pull. Drift.

Cold. Cold. Over soon.

Burning. Swallow. Tight and short of breath.

Over soon.

 

WARNING: YOU ARE RUNNING A BETA VERSION.

 

Light. A pierce of white out of the dark.

No. Go away.

Behind closed eyes: silver flash. Catch. Pull. Hand jerks vaguely toward hip. Nothing there.

Stop.

Over soon.

 

WARNING: THIS FEATURE SHOULD BE USED IN CONTROLLED TESTING ENVIRONMENTS ONLY

 

_Hand. Hook. Ice._

A pinpoint of light pushing at his skull, out of the dark. Small, gentle, insistent.

No. Stop.

Blink.

Not on the HUD. Something inside. Some ghost still stirring.

Over soon.

 

The rocking motion is gentle. Soothing. Push, pull. A breath he doesn't have to struggle for. A rhythm outside himself, carrying him away.

No.

He's breathing. Still breathing. Shallow, thin breaths. Stuck. Something tight at his chest, pulling—

his eyes are open—

a hook in his chest—

_Hand. Hip._

_Aim. Trigger._

_Hook. Ice._

Not real.

Not real.

But something pushing the breath through his chest, burning. His lips cold, split, tasting of salt and copper.

Something still clinging. Won't let him go.

 

Clinging around his body, pressing in from all sides. Water. Tide pushing in, pushing out. Waves, pushing against the cliff, pulling away. Rocking. That's what he feels. Taste salt in his teeth. Cold. But still breathing.

Doesn't feel so bad. Don't move for a while.

But he's supposed to die. Supposed to sink.

Instead drifting. The line going up and up—

a long black line, locked into his chest, going up and up in the silver-blue water flecked with gold.

Supposed to let go. Supposed to die. Unhook himself, sink deeper. Get the helmet off, weakly chugging the water out of his suit, warnings flashing. Let it into his lungs. Over quick then.

Too tired to move. Every limb heavy, heavier than gravity, heavier than the core of a small weak planet trying to pull him under.

Too tired to move.

The water rocks him gently, back and forth, in the push-pull of the icy tide, and his eyes drift closed again.

 

But they open again. Breath still pulling into his lungs, and in his mind something else is pulling.

Moves his right arm, and the numbness explodes into an agony of pins-and-needles pain, shoulder to fingertips screaming.

Have to move to die. Hand burning, fingers crackling in sharp icy pains as they curl to grasp the line

going taut

blinks away the image half-there, not real

_catching, not falling_

hand trembling on the big hook lodged under the breastplate. Just one good push to get it free. Then sink.

All his limbs so heavy, weak, muscles cramped with cold.

Gold flecks in the blue, sparks on the dark among the shadows. Seeing. Not seeing. Still staring up through the water, toward the sky. Eyes open, closed, something still pulling.

Stupid. Can't even die right.

 

Wakes again. Light is in a different place. Low. Sky a dimmer white-gray.

Not going to die like this. Won't work.

Hands move in the water, bursts of half-numb pain. Helmet. Get the seal.

_WARNING_

Flash of yellow light, out of the corner of his eye. Flash of silver. Flash of—

_a hook catching in ice._

…No

his hand is on the line instead,

the numbness in the limb exploding into pinpoints of pain all over. Trembling, fingers full of needles.

Gripping.

One hand. Other hand. Pull. Pull.

Rising through the water.

Just have to look. Just see. Know it's not real. Then he can die.

Hand over hand, toward the dark shadow in the water above.

 

Water pours away from the visor, leaving droplets clinging. Looks up. Sees. Why he was stuck. Why he didn't keep sinking.

The Pelican in the water. _Tex._ No. That was Valhalla. This one—

_came crashing out of the sky_

_"I can't believe it_ _—_ _”_

Don't remember it going over the cliff. Don't remember. But it's here. Floating, listing to one side, bobbing against the ice wall. Warthog stuck on top of it. Cable running from the winch. Running to him.

Carried him down. Then didn't let him go.

He bobs in the water at the edge of the Pelican's wing, sickeningly out of breath, a deep burning pain in the side of his torso, searing through his chest. Don't know how he's still breathing. Don't know how—

just have to look. Look up.

The cliff goes up and up, a sheer wall of ice. All the way to the top where—

no. _No_. Stupid. No way to tell, not the same cliff edge. Not where she fell. Wrong side of the ship. And they blasted a whole chunk of it off. Remember _running, leaping on pure instinct, Wash behind him hurling himself at the thrown cable hanging over the edge and climbing_

everything in his chest pulls tight. No. No. Can't. Don't be stupid. Let go and sink and die right this time.

But he can't stop seeing it.

 

He drags himself onto the bird's wing.

The helmet's stopped flashing warnings. Mouth still tastes like salt, copper. But didn't drown. Even underwater. Suit breached. Should've killed him. Easy. Drowned, frozen. Whichever comes first. Instead, suit kept pumping the water out. Even out of the helmet.

Shitty experimental hardware. Now it decides to work.

Stabbed in the chest. In the lung probably. Those swords, though. Cauterize their own wounds. Sealed him up. Like putting a lighter to the synthetic mesh of the undersuit, like they used to do in Infantry with their shitty body armor so it wouldn't fray out in the field.

Stupid luck right now. Still alive. Should be dead. Can still die. Take his helmet off and sink again. Luck can't keep water out of your lungs.

Something in his head, though. Always something in his fucking head. Gone but left all this shit behind. Won't even let him die right.

Pelican has a top hatch.

He shoves the hook loose from his breastplate. Knocks himself hard in the chin, his head swimming. Hooks splashes in the water, sinks slowly. Can see it distorted, wavery underwater, going down and down.

He crawls. Hands and knees and wheezing breaths, up the wing and over the hull. Finds the hatch. Done this in black space. Can do it in his sleep still. Grasp the handle, turn, pull. Airlock releases. Hatch opens.

His feet miss the ladder. Slip. Tumbles down inside, hits the floor hard, his whole torso a whitehot burst of pain.

Want to close his eyes again. Maybe the whole bird will sink with him in it.

 

Bird doesn't sink. Pelicans have flotation capability. For water landings. Right.

He doesn't move. Stays lying on the floor. Stays in his head instead, pushes into that pinhole of light. Trying to widen it, push it open and see.

 

He remembers them dying. Going out like firecrackers, snap snap snap. Spilling words, screams, cascades of memory dumping into his head. So long in the black feeling nothing but that hollow, lonely horror and the impressions of voices above him. Feeling sometimes, seeing like through a dirty pane of glass, shoved down again.

Suddenly everything. All at once.

Remember what they said last. Each one.

_Sorry, kiddo_

_Wait—_

_Not like this_

_I'm scared_

_Die_

_Knock, knock_

_Ah, fuck it_

_perhaps you will remember_

He does. All of it. Too much.

 

_Live._

Why? Tried to help him. No point.

_Live._

One word and an image. Something that keeps going through his head, like an echo. Not like a flash of light, but like remembering it. Like the shape of it burned in behind your eyelids.

He pushes into it, trying to see.

 

It isn't real. Not a full picture. Can't sink into it like he can a memory. Just a bunch of edges. An impression. When he pushes into it he feels his hand going to his hip, involuntary. An impulse, a push, quick and then gone.

Going for his sidearm but there's nothing there. Lost it somewhere in the fight.

A phantom sensation of falling. Not quite real yet. The drop in your stomach just before it happens.

Then nothing.

 

He wakes later, stiff on the floor of the Pelican. Less cold. Still damp. Even ruptured the suit's still chugging, trying to keep his body warm, dry, breathing.

He coughs, pain stabbing jagged through the side of his chest. Groans. Fuck. Don't remember it hurting this much before. Dead nerves, adrenaline, who fucking knows. Plasma sword through the chest. Shouldn't even be alive.

Won't be for too long if the bird sinks anyway. Nowhere to go from here. Sword hit his lung, probably some ribs. No fucking way he could climb even if it wasn't sheer ice all the way up.

He lays his head back on the floor. Groans again.

Climb. Idiot.

He's in a fucking Pelican.

 

Can feel the bird rock in the water as he pulls himself to his knees. Breath by breath, one movement at a time then stop to rest. Fuck. Getting his throat shot out didn't hurt this much. Well. Probably did and he just doesn't remember. Still. Whole body feels like it's trying to tear itself apart.

Fuck knows if the bird even still flies. Could turn the ignition and burst into flames.

He leans on the wall, gasping in breaths, feeling the Pelican list to the side with his weight.

 

The pilot seat's littered with cookie crumbs. First time he's thought about food in a while. Stomach growls hollowly as he collapses into the seat. Body still trying to be alive.

Can always put a bullet in his skull later. Luck won't stop a bullet.

Need to figure this one thing out, first.

 

The Pelican lives. Engine rumbles to life when he hits the ignition switch. That part’s obvious, at least. Never flew one of these things before.

She did.

He remembers that. Enough to remember how it felt, in the copilot seat. Not enough to know how, maybe. But when he feels for it his hands reach. Know something, even if he doesn’t.

Even if Maine doesn’t.

Thrusters. Right? Engaging thrusters. What they always say. The bird lurches to one side, bobs roughly in the water.

He feels the roar when he gets it right. Outside the hull, hissing and clouds of steam billowing up on the windshield as the thrusters engage.

And the bird lifts, lurching, out of the icy water.

 

He pulls the nose up, gaining altitude quick, but the bird can’t fly straight. Banks badly to one side and he can feel her going into the spiral even as he tries to compensate. Right. Busted wing. Didn’t account for that.

He leans her into the spiral instead, swinging gracelessly away from the cliff and careening back toward land once he's clear. Shit, too high, too high. Pull up? Throttle down? Throttle down. Gonna overshoot—

he lurches forward against the console as the Pelican plants its nose into the snow and something goes tumbling off the roof. Doubles over, clutching his chest and gasping for breath, an indeterminate stretch of blind agony before he can look up again and see.

The Warthog. Right. On the roof. Forgot about that.

Got a land vehicle now, if he wants one.

Huh.

 

He staggers out the cockpit hatch. Shuffles into the snow. Harder to walk. Breathing deep hurts so fucking much.

He looks around.

Vehicle tracks all over the snow. Melt patches too small for another Pelican—Hornets maybe. Foot tracks.

Don't remember so many vehicles.

Don't remember—

Wash.

Strange how quick the panic rises up again, clawing at his throat. Wash breathing labored, wheezing over the radio. Wash on his knees, _I knew you would do this,_ Wash with a pistol in his face—

Wash.

Alive?

_I knew you would do this, Meta_

He shudders and drops into the snow on his knees, his whole body sagging with exhaustion. So fucking tired.

Don't even know what he is now. Meta, Maine, Meta. Ghosts in the body of—

not a dead man. He keeps not dying. Keeps doing that.

Didn't kill Wash. Right? Don't remember killing him. Was alive when he fell. Right? Shotgun shells battering shields, metal hook heavy on his breastplate.

Stupid how much he wants Wash to be alive, after everything.

Maine still wants him alive.

Only Wash kept calling him Meta. Not Maine.

Not Meta now. All of them dead. All of them gone. Even her.

He balls up his fists in the snow.

Glad they're dead.

Glad they're gone.

So who's glad?

 

It's the hollow gnawing in his stomach that drags him to his feet again. Hunger. Heavy step after heavy step. Might've been better to drown. Now he can't stop thinking about food. Can't hold still even though it hurts so much to move.

Almost forgot about the ship, in a strange way. Half-buried under snow and ice the _Mother of Invention_ could be just another _thing_ , just another alien structure or simulation base built on this strange lonely planet. Impenetrable, unimportant, like the long concrete wall on the east side of the canyon at Valhalla. Until something bursts out of it, coming for you.

All still now, quiet and cold.

How to get inside?

The docking bays on the underside are buried under two years of ice and snowfall. Manual airlock’s buried too. He'd never be able to open it.

Stupid. The bridge.

For that he has to climb. But not much. The long, pointed bow of the ship stabbed itself into the ice crust as it crashed, and two years worth of snow and ice have accumulated on top. It's a slope up, but not a steep one. Gradual. The new snow is soft, his boots sinking in deep until they hit the more solid crunch of ice beneath.

The catch in his chest takes hold when he looks up, sees the smashed-open hull.

Remember jumping down into the snow. Remember that was him. One of the last things that was.

 

The bridge is dark. Every console black, silvered with frost. Snow blowing in in a fan shape from the hull breach, drifted against the corners, consoles, steps.

He takes the steps a couple at a time, resting to catch his breath in between, up to the raised platform that runs down the center of the bridge, above all the crew stations, with the central command console at the end. _Where she stood, Agent Texas, black-armored and strangely still_. He touches the console just in case, but there's nothing. No light. Rubs the thick layer of frost away with his glove.

Nothing here anymore.

 

Back the other way, behind the big open atrium: the war room. The lab.

He remembers that. Remembers being inside, even though he never was. Not as Maine. Not in this body. Maine didn’t even know there was a lab behind this door. But he remembers anyway.

Here every night. Every night while Maine slept. When he did sleep. He remembers struggling to sleep for the constant noise in his head, wearing himself out with push-ups justs to drift off. Remembers waking still tired. But Sigma remembers him out cold, his snores mingling with Wash's in their little room.

 _"The schematics you gave me, they're so complex_ _… I just need more time."_

He shudders, frozen in the threshold, hand on the door frame. Don't want to go in there. Don't want to see this, the dark screens and consoles lining the wall, frosted over now. The security camera mounted high in the corner, its moving eye gone still. He knows where it is without looking. Sees, without trying, the whole room from that hidden vantage. The virtual environment rendered on the monitors, the hardline connection waiting—

Don't want to understand _why_.

He hates Sigma, he supposes. Maine hates Sigma. That makes sense. But he remembers being Sigma, too.

Remember why he did it.

_need stronger stimuli_

He shivers. Sigma never told him all of it. Didn't know then. Just trusted him.

Now he knows.

Comes back so sharp, the sound of Alpha crying.

Like he'd lost everything that mattered.

Know what that feels like.

Hate that he knows.

 

Can hear the sounds, long gone. The Covenant Engineer. How they did it. The cryo crate is gone. Don't know where they took it. Doesn't matter.

_"You're the only one heavy enough to counterbalance."_

It's the heaviest relief, Maine's memories resurfacing—pushing back against Sigma's. His eyes close and he can almost smell glass melting and shattering under plasma fire, feel the creak of the window-washing rig and Carolina's boot in his back, and the drop.

Carolina.

Every trail leads back to her.

Everything takes him to that edge, and always one of them is falling.

 

In the war room the holotable is dark, covered in frost. His glove melts a broad hand print in its surface, like a black starfish. Drops of water bead on its still-gleaming surface. A white and gold reflection catches his eye, a ghost caught in the shadow of his hand.

He remembers Carolina's hands, moving quick through the holographic diagrams, the mission parameters built in light before them.

Wonders suddenly if FILSS is still here. Alone? In the ship all this time? No. Remember her in other places. Some of them don't make sense. Can't be right.

His helmet still has a function to ping for the ship's AI.

ERROR. COMMAND SERVER OFFLINE.

 

The wall panel covering the maintenance tunnel was never put back. Tunnel still lies open, every surface frosty and he shivers, even though he's not very cold in his suit.

Remember the climb, the chase, everything. The urgency pumping through his body, pushing him forward. Him. Not him. Thought he still knew which was which then. Now, with memory lying over memory in his mind, colors bleeding into each other…

_Hurry, Maine._

It almost puts him on his knees again, remembering. The fiery voice urging him on in his head, frantic. How he listened. Felt it, something terrible, wrong, they had to fix. He leans heavily on the wall, hands pressed flat to its surface and his visor resting against it and for a moment he wishes he could smash it all out of his head. Like that would make it all not have happened.

Believed him. Believed everything.

His fault.

 

The maintenance tunnel is the only way forward. Power is offline. All the elevators dead.

He follows the tunnel to the shaft and starts the climb down. Slowly. Move and rest and move again. One careful step at a time.

 

He doesn't really have a plan. Just climbs until he sees something familiar. LIVING QUARTERS. Never really thought about how little of the ship he knew, how little of it the Freelancers actually used. Living quarters, training rooms, locker room, classroom, briefing room. A few decks out of a dozen, maybe more. Never bothered to know. Wasn’t crew. Wasn’t his business. There are schematics, blueprints, diagrams in his head now. Details not his, left behind.

It’s hard climbing. Don’t realize how hard until he stops, climbs off the ladder and out of the maintenance tunnel and feels the ache in his forearms from gripping too hard, compensating for his weakened core. Never would’ve had trouble with that climb at full strength.

Probably never be like that again.

The corridors are pitch black, the strips of red emergency lighting long dead. His helmet's gone to dark vision, outlining corner and shadow in dim color. Dead man crawling through a dead ship.

Not dead, though.

He keeps one hand on the wall to his right as he moves. Partly to keep steady, keep moving through the pain. Partly to remind him it's real.

It’s getting hard to push away. More coming now, not Sigma’s. Layers peeling apart, uncurling in tendrils and trails as he turns down the familiar corridor where Alpha Squad’s quarters were

 _footfalls rhythmic, soft and soothing, a small voice gone quiet, a pause by the door, "Can we go around one more time?" "Okay, Theta, once more_ _…"_

memories unfolding in every direction

_padding through the corridors in sweats and bare feet, wonder who's up, listening to the calming stream of numbers and probabilities_

no no no

_night after night in the squad lounge with a scotch and a few unspoken jokes for company, listening to their insipid chatter_

they're dizzy with colors, overlapping and dissonant

_one more session before sleep_

pulled in all directions

_feel like being out of armor for a while_

He sags against the wall, beating his fist against it to try and stay, try and bring himself back, _fuck_ he can't do this, he can't be _Maine_ if he can't get rid of all of this shit they left behind and it's never going _away_

_feel like being out of armor_

—that one. That one's his. Maine's. The one that goes with this body. Can _feel_ that. The memory that lives in this body.

He was real. Just him in here, before. Just him in here now.

He takes a deep breath. Okay. Follow the footsteps he can feel.

Stay. Breathe. Be Maine.

Stomach growls. Be Maine hungry, headed for the mess hall with familiar steps. This. This he can do.

 

He finds the mess, empty and cold. Deep inside the ship now, there isn't the frost he saw on the exposed bridge, but it's still cold, by the HUD readings, a cold that'll penetrate quick if his armor goes. The temp controls are still working, though well below 100%. Even breached, broken, armor keeps trying to do its job. Keep him warm. Keep him breathing. Keep him alive.

His stomach growls, reminding him.

He pushes past the swinging door to the kitchen. Never been back here. Never had to be. No mess duty in Special Projects. Ship has crew for that. Had.

A lot of supplies left behind. Some must've been taken, too. There are big empty spaces on the racks. Then stacks of boxes still sealed from shipment. Everything shifted in the crash, some fallen.

Have to have something here he can eat.

Pain shoots jagged spikes through the left side of his chest when he tries to shove one of the heavier boxes aside. Drops to the floor, curling his arms around himself, gasping, waiting for the pain to subside. Trying to breathe.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Can't do anything. Not even strong anymore.

 

It takes a few long intervals of searching, resting, searching, and moving lighter boxes, but he finds a case of meal drinks he can get to at long last and fishes one out, not bothering to look at the flavor before cracking it open and pouring it down his throat, swallowing so long he forgets to breathe. Sets it down, gasping again. Fake vanilla with that chemical aftertaste. The edge of the can tastes dusty. His head swims slightly, nauseous maybe from pain, maybe from drinking too fast, maybe both. He leans his head back against the wall, closing his eyes, breathing strained breaths, until it abates. Finishes the can.

Whatever's going on under his armor is… something he's going to have to deal with, eventually.

If he's going to live.

 _Live._ The spark in his mind, small but persistent. Maybe not real. But when he closes his eyes, feels for the impression, it’s still there.

Have to stay alive, then. Least until he can figure this thing out.


	2. Breathe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the one with the gross scary medical shit. You can [message me](https://anneapocalypse.tumblr.com/ask) if you need to know specifics.

Medical makes his skin crawl.

Just thinking about it. Never mind being here. Stomach knots up as he passes through the Recovery area, everything empty and dark and green-tinted shadow. To the double doors at the end. Remember eight sets of hands holding Maine—holding him back. A shot of something in the neck, the terror as Maine tumbled out of consciousness, helpless, as Wash disappeared through the double doors, as Epsilon slipped out of their reach.

Remember both at once, with his hand on the door, and shivers.

No one to stop him now.

 

It’s bigger back here than he remembers. Spent a lot of time here but stuck in one room. Never really saw the whole medical wing. Lot of rooms. Suppose that makes sense. Ship had a crew of hundreds. Not just Freelancers can get wounded. Or sick.

Have to figure out where they keep the drugs.

Drug lockup will be centralized, he figures. Finds it behind an unlocked door near the nurses’ station. Nothing’s actually locked, the door and all the med cabinets just open. All the electronic locks on the ship open. Must've blown them all when the power went. Some kind of crash protocol maybe. Don't know. Never gone down on a frigate before. Maybe supposed to be like that, so survivors can salvage supplies.

Survivors. Right.

What to look for. Painkillers? Biofoam?

Don't know. Lot of stuff here.

Not everything’s medicine. In one cabinet a rack of plastic vials he recognizes before reading the label. _Bronchial surfactant_ , that lime-flavored slime you have to inhale before cryo. Coats your lungs, keeps ice crystals from forming. Gotta cough it up when you wake and then swallow it. Kinda gross. You get used to it.

Nearby, clear vials of cytoprethaline. Also for cryo. That one gets injected. Same reason.

Other vials in the cabinet. Some he doesn’t recognize. One on a lower shelf, an acrid yellow, winks in the dim glow of his night vision.

Picks one up. The actual drug name is impossibly long and his eyes skim over it.

WARNING: THIS IS A CHEMICAL AUGMENTER AND IS NOT INTENDED TO PREVENT, TREAT OR CURE ANY DISEASE. THIS COMPOUND SHOULD ONLY BE ADMINISTERED BY TRAINED PERSONNEL IN CONJUNCTION WITH THE INDICATED COMBAT AUGMENTATION DEVICE. IMPROPER USE MAY RESULT IN INJURY OR DEATH. PERSEPHONE PHARMACEUTICALS AND ITS PARENT COMPANY CHARON INDUSTRIES ARE NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR ANY INJURY OR DEATH THAT MAY RESULT. SIDE EFFECTS MAY INCLUDE ANXIETY, HEADACHES, HYPERTENSION, AND TACHYCARDIA. PLEASE CONSULT A PHYSICIAN IF SIDE EFFECTS PERSIST FOR MORE THAN 3 DAYS AFTER USE.

Can feel his heart racing. Breathing too fast. Half real, half memory. _Heart rate up. Without warning, putting her fist through the locker in front of_ _—_

Almost without thinking he closes his hand over the vial. Stupid. Don’t even have that mod. Probably kill him to use it if he did.

Still.

 

He digs through more cabinets, sifts through bottles, trying to remember the names of the painkillers he got when he was in here for his throat. Can't think of them. Words fall apart in his head when he tries. Grabs a couple of names he recognizes. High dose, high strength but non-narcotic. Don't trust that shit. Never did and his head's fucked up enough already.

Biofoam? Had a can in his suit. Almost empty now. Finds a fresh can, swaps out the empty. Might as well. Just a precaution. Any major bleeding, he'd already be dead.

Deep tissue energy weapon wounds, well. Don't know what you do for those. Most don't survive them. Those that do, only thing to do is get them off the field to extraction and medical as quick as possible. Have to see what he's dealing with. Lung's fucked up, he knows that much. But not so much he can't breathe. Lung didn't collapse. Wound must've sealed itself up. Might heal on its own.

Unless there's dead tissue and it goes necrotic. Then, probably be dead in twenty-four hours anyway. Sepsis. Seen that happen in the field. Ugly way to go.

They're all ugly. No good ways to die. Drowning wouldn't have been pretty either. Just quicker.

He lets out a long breath. Antibiotics. Probably better look for those too. Improve his odds at least.

 

Loaded up with armful of drugs, he drags himself to the nearest patient room. An Intensive Care single, right across from the nurse’s station. Dumps all the medicine on the rolling tray table by the bed.

Water. Should find some water. Still some reserve in his armor probably, but with the damage it’s way below optimal.

Where would they keep bottled water. Damn it. Never had to think about all this.

He tries the drug lockup again, and then the nurses’ station. Fridge in the back. Smells like something died in there but the bottom shelf is stuffed with water bottles, still sealed. He shoves a bunch under his right arm and makes his way back to the room.

 

Helmet comes off first. Puts the light on so he can see what he's doing in the pitch black room. Blinks as it comes off, the green shadow of night vision giving way to a yellow cone of light emanating from the gold visor.

He cracks open the bottle of painkillers first, shakes four pills into his palm and down them all at once with half the bottle of water. They stick in his throat for a moment, rough against the scar tissue. He swallows, and swallows again, eyes tearing up, but they finally go down.

Breastplate next. Drops it on the floor with a clatter and starts stripping the rest of the plate off his upper body, slowly. Have to stop and catch his breath in between all the moving. It’s a lot. There’s a stiff kind of ache starting up in his right shoulder and he thinks, vaguely, that he remembers getting shot there before.

Undersuit, finally. The pressure coming away from his skin. Did get shot in the shoulder—he can feel the scar.

Wash's knife got him. A slash across the collarbone, messy but superficial, and once straight through the breast place. Blade got his chest but not deep, just muscle.

The suit sticks, pulls where there's blood dried between. He hisses sharply when he tries to peel the mesh away from his left side. Where the sword sliced it, the synthetic underlayer is melted to his skin. He fumbles for his combat knife and slices the mesh away, as close to the skin as his shaking hands can do. Even in the low light he can see his skin blistered around the wounds.

Suit off to his waist, he bends into the light from the helmet, trying to see.

Plasma doesn't cut, not really, even shaped like a blade. Burns. And a bad burn burns the flesh around it, the damage radiating outward from the point of contact. So it doesn't look like a slash or a cut. Two oblong burn marks, dark red and blistered all around, far to the left side of his torso. Two more around back if he could twist and see them.

But no blood. Never is.

Went all the way through him. Any further over, probably be dead. Just grazed his lung maybe, but with burns that’s bad enough. If his flesh starts rotting from the inside, he’s dead, just slower. No doctors here to put him under and cut him open and stick tubes and shit in his body to keep it alive. Keep him tethered and monitored for weeks, watching him.

No one watching him now. Not inside, not outside. Glad for that.

Might still die. Maybe got enough time to figure this out.

 

He shakes a single dose out of the bottle of antibiotic pills. Thinks about it, looks at the label. Shakes out a second pill for good measure. Swallows them one at a time, finishing the bottle of water.

What else to do. Should probably put something over the wounds, but god, he’s so tired. Starting to shiver, too, in the cold dark room. He works his arms back into his undersuit, seals it back up over his chest.

Enough to hold him together for now, he hopes. Sleep first. Figure out the rest later.

 

He wakes with his chest caving in, drenched in sweat.

The rolling tray table tips over, crashing and scattering meds over the floor as he thrashes awake in full-blown panic, rolling off the bed and landing hard on the floor. Drowning. Coughs hard, wetly, tasting copper on his tongue.

Dying.

After all this. Pulled himself out of the water to die on an abandoned ship. Drowning in nothing but his own body.

The pressure in his chest is worse than the water, tight and unyielding and unbearable. Can’t breathe. Heart going to stop. All be over soon. Can't breathe. Can't—

He grasps around helplessly on the floor, skidding on a layer of pills spilled out of the painkiller bottle and vials rolling under his hands—

acrid yellow, fingers closing around the tube—

coughing desperately, his chest heaving trying to breathe, a pale red mist on the floor.

Dying.

Still wearing his suit. Get it into his autoinjector or he dies. Syringe would be faster. Didn’t fucking think to take one. Thought pills would save him. Idiot.

What breath he can suck in feels hopelessly shallow, the pressure building in his lungs like something is sitting on his chest, crushing him to death. Each breath he tries to pull in, stabbing pain all along his left side and deep in his chest.

Never used his autoinjector. Where the fuck even is it in the armor—

thigh. Slot in the thigh. No time to think about how he knows that. Can barely see the slot in the dark, have to find it with his fingers. Shaking. Whole body just wants to collapse and the vial keeps slipping even in his gloved hand. Go in go in, fucking hell—

The vial snaps into place. What now—

Helmet. Need the HUD to activate the fucking thing. Helmet fell off the table when he knocked it over. Rolled—where?

Under the bed.

He’s going to die. Left side of his torso feels like a vice closing.

Reach. God damn it it’s right there just—fingers brushing against the smooth visor, grasping until at last he manages to roll the thing out from under the bed and shove it over his face. Prone on his chest, staring into the floor as the HUD lights up.

ADMINISTER AUTOINJECTION? WARNING: COMPOUND NOT RECOGNIZED. PROCEED?

 _Yes_ , yes fucking proceed.

There’s a hard prick in his upper thigh and wave of nausea washes over him. Fuck. Forgot for second what “inject” actually meant and it’s all he can do not to puke inside his helmet. Don’t have a whole lot in his stomach anyway.

Fucking hell he hates needles so much.

The cocktail hits him a second later. The jolt of synthetic adrenaline and chemical stims is almost painful in itself, flooding every limb and jumping his heart into overdrive. Shaking violently, gasping, and—

muscle relaxers. Forgot about that part. Frantic energy bursting through every vein and his limbs all gone rubbery. Strange feeling.

Breathing’s easier by a bit. Not by a lot. Heart not going to stop. But lung still fucked. Have to fix it to live.

How, though. _How,_ fuck he can’t do this, he should've just died under the water.

_Think_ _—_

Can't think. Can't _breathe_. Probably hyperventilating now. Seen that on the battlefield, some poor fuck with their lungs filling up with fluid, no time for a medic to get there and stabilize.

After his throat. What Carolina said. Had him on a ventilator. Tube in his throat. Still makes him feel sick to think about it. No one here to do that to him now. Maybe good, maybe bad. Maybe why he dies.

Oxygen, though.

There's a tank in the corner by the door, in the dim outline of his helmet’s dark vision.

Okay. Helmet off and get to the tank. Push. Hands, knees, crawl.

Worse than pulling himself out of the water.

Elbow, elbow, knee, knee.

Close.

There.

Mask slips out of his hand as he tears it off the clip to the side of the tank. Fumbles it over his face, wheezes helplessly into the plastic as his thumb and forefinger try desperate to twist the valve release.

The hissing sound brings with it a cool wash of oxygen into his mouth, down to his lungs. He rolls onto his back on the floor. Mistake. Pressure is so much worse that way, like his chest is being crushed flat. He rolls over, pain shooting through his left side as his body twists, coughing and and he has to pull the mask away to spit bloody foam onto the floor.

Collapses on his chest again, snaps the elastic around the back of his head.

Okay. Oxygen. Breathe.

Breathe.

 

He drifts for a few minutes, maybe more. Nothing but fog in his head, nothing but dark and terror and dim relief that he’s breathing, at least. Heart beating. Still alive, if barely.

Takes a while for his head to clear enough to think: what now.

Something wrong with his lung. Something bad. Have to fix it to live. What to do.

All he knows for field treatment is biofoam. Stabbed with a blade, shot with bullets, biofoam can seal up your insides, stimulate some tissue regeneration, keep you from bleeding out until you can get medical treatment. But no good here. Plasma sword left a closed wound, deep tissue burns he can’t reach.

Can’t inhale it either. Expand in his airways, close them up and suffocate.

Can't inhale—

Inhale.

He’s still facedown on the cold floor, oxygen flowing from the mask and into his throat, cold and dry. Cold. Makes him think of something.

Something you can breathe in.

Got that fresh can of biofoam still slotted into his armor. On the other thigh. Foam comes in two components, A and B. They combine, they foam. Don't combine, won't foam.

Medicinal component's in side A. Had to crack open a can in the field before, too empty to use like normal. Tried to get a few last drops of the medicine out and into a wound, keep a buddy alive until extraction.

Buddy died anyway. Not great odds here.

 

The oxygen's helping though. That and the adrenaline. Gets him to his knees, leaning hard on the wall. Won't make it far. Just need to get back to the drug lockup for one more thing.

He crawls slowly across the floor, move and rest and move and rest, dragging the oxygen tank with him. Have to stop every few feet, lie on the floor and just suck in oxygen.

Ten more meters. Come on, Maine. Move.

Know where everything is from before. The speed unit cocktail, the cytopret. The bronchial surfactant.

He grabs a tube, and goes to the floor again. Breathe in, breathe out. Mouth dry and cold. Pressure in his chest, worse on the left side. Not good.

BRONCHIAL SURFACTANT, BERRY FLAVOR. Never had that one before. First time for everything.

How to use it.

He groans into the mask. Fuck. Don't have an inhaler. Don't know where to find one. Don't know how to mix the components. Don't know anything.

Closes his eyes on the floor. About ready to take the mask off his face, give up and suffocate. Not a good way to go. Don’t even have his sidearm to make it quick.

The mask.

He groans again. Stupid.

 

Still got his field standard multitool. Something in there should be able to puncture the canisters. Here. A sharp, square spike. Used that more than a few times in the field. Killed a Grunt with it once, with his rifle empty and his M11 lost and the plasma pistol he'd picked up overheated in his hands. Got the little fucker right through the eye. Punctured his gasbag for good measure. Whole area smelled like farts. Got out alive.

Have to do this quick.

He’s rolled mostly to his right side, still on the floor of the med lockup. Takes a couple of deeper breaths, trying to push through the burning pain in his side. Be easier to work sitting up, but too hard to breathe. Have to keep breathing.

He twists the oxygen nozzle to off. Pulls the mask off and lays it open-side up, fogged from his breath. Punctures the surfactant vial. It comes out slow, thick liquid, dark pink in color, a mucusy texture. The bright artificial berry smell hits his nostrils as the stuff pours into the mask, settling in the dip where the tube attaches.

One down. One to go. He's already wheezing, the pressure in his chest crushing. Better finish quick.

Takes the biofoam canister, turns it bottom-up, and jams the spike through the A side. It hisses. He twists the spike, pull it out, and trickles the stream of bluish clear liquid into the mask, pouring it over the pink slime.

No time to think about it. Either going to work or it won't, and he'll either be better or dead.

He pulls the mask back to his face, twists the valve open and the rush of oxygen pushes the surfactant and the biofoam liquid into his throat and he inhales desperately, gagging as the liquid pours into his lungs.

It burns fucking horribly going down. Guess that's good, even as he's twisting in agony on the floor, pounding his fist against the floor and against his chest, tears pouring from his eyes. Pain means it's working. Doesn’t make it better. For several excruciating moments he can't breathe at all as the surfactant coats his lungs. Normally you'd be going to the freeze before you could feel it, before you could remember not breathing.

He wheezes, gags, tries to hold his breath, hold it in his longs for as long as he can, let the surfactant coat the whole inside of his lungs. Hopefully spread the medicine where it needs to go. Hopefully be enough.

Finally he chokes, starts coughing. A harsh, wet cough, thick in his windpipe as the surfactant starts to come back up.

Tastes gross. Worse than the lime.

He remembers at the last minute to pull the mask away from his mouth to cough up the pink slime onto the floor. Can't even try to swallow it, he's still gagging and his vision is swimming and he can't believe he did this, what a stupid idea, probably going to kill him faster than suffocating on the floor.

His limbs are weak and with his last bit of strength he drags the mask back over his mouth. A few flecks of pink on the edge that he can just barely see at the lower edge of his vision. Cool oxygen pours freely into his lungs once again. Still taste the berry.

His chest is on fire, but he's breathing. Breathing for now. Alive for now.

 

He comes to sometime later, eyes stinging as he blinks. Mouth feels drier than a desert and his throat hurts bad when he swallows. Fuck. Thirsty. Don't know how long he's been out.

He's still on the floor of the med lockup, on his stomach with his head tipped to the side and the oxygen mask still over his mouth. Weak and shaky. Aches bad all over. Eyes coming into focus. Too close for comfort to the crusty pink splatter of surfactant on the floor.

Moving feels impossible, but he's thirsty enough to want to die all over again. Need water.

He rolls onto his good side. Everything feels strange. Real. So quiet. The panic gone, and the adrenaline too, leaving only a hollow shakiness behind.

Wonder if he can get up.

Takes it slow rolling to an upright position. His vision whites out anyway, his head throbbing as the snow slowly clears away and he can see the room again. Knocked a lot of shit over getting what he needed. Vials and pill bottles all over the floor.

Saved his own life, looks like. Getting stupidly good at that.

He crawls back to the room and hauls himself onto the bed. Sits upright just long enough to down a bottle of water and collapse on his stomach again.

 

What wakes him this time is hunger.

No idea how long he slept this time. Felt longer. The burning’s gone from his chest, and the pressure’s eased up. Still don’t feel good. Shaky and weak and like he’s been hit by a train. But he can sit upright without feeling like he’s suffocating, long as he keeps the mask on.

Stomach growls. Food. No one to stick tubes in him if he can’t eat. Stupid body. Always needing something. Want to sleep for a year, but the gnawing in his stomach won’t let him drift off again.

Should’ve brought some meal drinks back from the mess with him. Stupid. Wasn’t thinking.

Maybe something in medical. Save him a trip up to the mess. Only one deck up, but he doubts he can make the climb.

He reaches for his helmet instinctively and then groans. Helmet won’t go over the mask. Need the oxygen. Have to be something else he can use for light. Multitool. Multitool has a flashlight in it.

Multitool’s on the floor in the med lockup.

Groans again.

Guess he’s going there first.

 

No real kitchen in medical. Don’t know why he thought there would be, like a hospital, but then, mess hall’s only one deck up. Must just bring the food down from there. Never thought about it. Couldn’t eat solid food when he was stuck here anyway.

Could now, maybe. Right?

He thinks about that as he pokes around the nurses’ station, dragging his oxygen tank behind him. Still have to stop and rest every minute or so. But he can move without suffocating.

Room goes back further than he thought at first, opening into kind of a lounge. Swinging the weak circle of white light around, he can make out a couch, some chairs, a TV screen. Off to the left, cabinets. Drawers. Sink. Fridge.

He leans heavy on the counter as he makes his way around, opening cabinets. Bunch of prepackaged food. Squints as he bends over, wincing, trying to breathe through the pain of twisting his upper body. Some kind of box, crackers, cookies, bars. Protein bars.

Food.

He’s worn out enough already that he just lowers himself to the floor, sucking in oxygen. Lips feel cracked. Mouth is so dry. Get some water when he goes back.

Have to eat.

He pulls a bar out of the package, fumbling with the wrapper in the dark. Hands feel clumsy and weak. Still his at least. Tearing it open.

Ate in the box. The brick. Right. Forgot about that. If you can call that solid food.

Pushes the mask aside and takes a cautious bite.

Harder than the brick. Chewier. Not used to having to chew hard. Makes his jaw crack. Tastes a lot better, though. Peanut butter and chocolate. Better than the protein shakes he’s so used to he almost doesn’t taste them anymore.

He closes his eyes and sits back against the cabinet and chews and chews. Still a little rough going down his throat. Not pain really. Just a weird feeling, a tightness swallowing. But he can eat.

He can eat. Whatever he wants. Whatever he can find.

He polishes off the bar. Lets his breath out slowly and pulls the mask back to his face. Breathes.

Another bar. Chews slower this time. Half the bar, and back to the oxygen. Then finish. Breathe.

One more bar.

Chest feels a little tight again by the time he’s done. He almost stretches out right on the floor. Forgot. There’s a couch. Can get there.

He hauls himself off the floor, stretches out on the couch lying on his stomach, his feet hanging off the end. Too tired to care. Breathes until he falls asleep again.

 

When he wakes his mouth feels like dry tundra. Need water now.

Always needing something.

He hefts the box of protein bars under his arm, holding the flashlight in his hand, dragging the tank with the other, and begins the slow haul back to the room.

When he sleeps, he dreams.

 

He dreams of drowning.

Dreams of suffocating darkness, pressing so close on all sides he can’t feel his hands, his face, his skin.

The darkness explodes into blinding white. Without warning, the pressure gives way to aimless, loose-limbed drifting, floating into the sky, nothing anchoring him to his body, to the ground.

And then he’s sinking in silver-white water, little flecks of light winking at him from above, growing further and further as the water crushes the air from his lungs.

He wakes with sweat clinging inside his suit, running cold from his temples, and curls up as tight as he can without agonizing pain, shivering in the dark.

Just ordinary darkness now but it feels so deep and so big. Like it could go on in every direction forever. Never find the end of it. Dragging his broken body in circles, always alone.

 

It goes for a while like that—probably days, he really doesn’t know. Don’t have his helmet on, and it all blurs together in the dark. Waking long enough to eat, drink, collapsing to sleep on his chest with the oxygen mask over his face. Would be boring if he weren’t so fucking exhausted. Hurts to move. Walking around feels like moving underwater. Better to sleep.

 

But he wakes, finally, with the crushing exhaustion starting to lift. Still tired but more ordinary tired. Rough mission tired, not lay down and die tired. Restless tired.

Tired of being in the dark tired.

He fumbles for his helmet on the bedside table and gets the light switched on. Never picked up that rolling tray table he knocked over, and just looking at it, all the meds scattered on the floor and the door open where he crawled on his knees, desperate for something to let him breathe—all comes rushing back, the memory of that crushing panic, the feeling that he’d do anything, _anything_ just to _breathe._

Wasn't so long ago he wanted to drown, was it?

He sits up slowly, pushing the mask aside with both hands to rub his face away, nose and temples and the hollows under his eyes. Feel his face, alive and awake.

Realizes then he can’t feel the cool flow of oxygen to the mask anymore. In the cone of light from his helmet, he squints at the gauge on the tank, the needle in the red. Empty. Probably ran out a while ago while he slept.

Still breathing.

He shakes his head slowly and swings his legs off the bed. Might as well see how far he can walk.

Guess the body of Agent Maine wants to live after all.

Guess maybe Maine does too.


	3. Move

He moves slowly along the corridor out of medical, leaning heavily on the wall and trying to focus on taking even breaths. Too deep, it hurts bad in the left side. Probably where the sword got him in the ribs. Too shallow, he starts getting lightheaded. Helmet notes RESPIRATION BELOW OPTIMAL, INCREASING OXYGEN LEVELS and that does make it a little easier to breathe.

Whole ship's pitch black inside. All the power shut down. Computer offline, FILSS gone. Everything dark. Been in the dark for days.

But there must still be power. Left all this other shit behind, no reason the drive wouldn't still be there.

Have to go further down for that. Lower decks, engineering. Just thinking about all that climbing makes him feel tired. Why he didn't go there first. Didn't _need_ light, or even heat, not with his armor. Don't need it now, technically. Just need meds, food, water, sleep.

But it's too much dark. Too much like being under. Not the same, can feel his own skin, even the pain and shortness of breath is a reminder that he's here, that he's in his body, _real._ That his hands work and his feet go where he tells them to, more or less.

Not the same. But too close.

Need light again.

 

It is a long climb.

Least he’s going down. Easier. Going back up, could be a problem. This works, he can bring the elevators back online. If it doesn’t—

If it doesn’t he’s stuck climbing.

Even going down, he has to rest every couple minutes. Armor eases the strain in his limbs. Wouldn’t be able to do this out of armor right now, he’s pretty sure of that. Still a long climb. Down and down through the maintenance shafts, through parts of the ship he doesn't remember. Well. Parts of him do. Parts of him don’t. Don’t want to think about that. Don't want their help.

So much left behind he doesn’t want.

 

But when he gets to engineering, he doesn't know where to look. Don't know how any of this works. What anything means or does. Could blow up the goddamn ship for all he knows.

He stands and stares, helplessly, at the rows of consoles and control panels.

Don't know what to do. But someone did.

Someone else who left his shit behind.

 

_think we could get into a lot of trouble here_

_I think we are already in a lot of trouble, York_

_Let's test that theory_

 

He grits his teeth. Want to pull out of it so badly. Shove it away somewhere it can’t touch him. Don’t _want_ this, don’t want to sink into memories that aren’t his. Don’t want to be Sigma, Delta, Gamma.

Want to be Maine.

But Maine doesn’t know what to do.

There is a memory shaped like footsteps, moving to a console.

His hands are still his. Feet still his. Still Maine doing this, even if he follows the shape of the memory.

Breathe.

 

First thing, have to bring the reactor back online.

The deuterium fusion reactor's housed in a shielded, soundproof chamber at the stern end, near the thrusters. Don't want those coming online. Could easily drive the ship right over that cliff and into the arctic waters. Ship would fill up with icy water from the hull breaches. Bridge and bow first, creeping through the rest of the ship wherever it finds something unsealed. Following his trail through the maintenance shafts. Creeping through ventilation ducts. Coming to put icy hands on him, drag back down under.

Maybe where he's supposed to be. Already decided to live, though. Fought too fucking hard to breathe just to go drown now.

A series of heavy manual switches brings the reactor online. Even the soundproofing doesn't completely hide the eerie shrieking noise plasma fusion makes, not if you put your ear to the wall. He does. Just to hear it working. Starts with a low rumble, takes time to warm up. A few minutes. Then you can just barely hear that high-pitched sound from within, atoms of deuterium plasma crushed into one another with enough pressure to fuse them together.

He leaves the reactor controls, goes back to the console. Following the shape of the memory.

 

No FILSS means all the computers are manual controls. He taps the console and green text splashes across the screen. SHISNO. Just for an instant and gone. Something else left behind. He snorts a laugh, though he doesn’t quite know why.

Okay. What next?

Power distribution. That’s where he is, what this console controls.

Artificial gravity. No need for that on the ground.

Life support. Fuck. Didn't even think about air, deep in the ship. Should've. Been dead over two years, nothing running. Hull breaches must've let air in. Atmo's breathable, just cold. Not so cold in the middle decks. Cold down here.

Heat would be good. Armor’s doing its best but it’s pretty fucked up. Could stand to take it off and take stock of the damage.

So. Lighting. Life support. Light, heat, air. Good enough. If he really knew what he was doing, could probably send it just to a few decks, save power, but fuck it. Might as well light up the whole ship. Don’t want to have to climb back down here anytime soon.

His helmet dims sharply when the lights come on in Engineering, all at once, and it still nearly blinds him, the shock of light after days on end in the dark. He squeezes his eyes shut, groans as needles of pain pierce his skull. Too much.

But it's enough. What he needs to keep going. Keep searching.

Stay alive.

 

He leans against the wall of the elevator as it rises through the ship, head swimming inside his helmet, the speed and the pull against gravity making his insides feel liquid. Pulls in a deeper breath as the elevator lurches to a stop on the residential deck, stays still for a moment to let his stomach level out, tries not to puke. Still better than climbing.

A long corridor stretches before him. Agents' quarters down either side. Mostly doubles. Don't have to look at the nameplates on the doors to remember. The memories peel apart, splitting in layers again, footsteps going every direction at once.

Wyoming and Florida. South Dakota and Connecticut. New York and North Dakota.

Washington and Maine.

 

The light blinks on automatically when he walks in, and his chest tightens a little. For no reason. Don’t know what he expected to see. Two bunks made up, regulation tight, hospital corners. Two footlockers, regulation gray, lettered in black. MAINE and WASHINGTON. Slid aft but still closed up tight. The bunks are fastened down, like most furnishings aboard ship.

No pistol on the floor, thrown half under the bunk. No sign of anything that happened here. But he remembers—doubled here, the only difference the pitch of the panic that struck them both at once. _Wash. Epsilon._

Don’t remember being Wash. At least there’s that.

_went insane and killed itself inside your head._

Is that what happened? Didn’t kill itself very good then. Maine snorts. Got that in common.

He lowers himself to the floor next to Wash’s footlocker. Don’t know why he goes there first, except that the memory draws him into that corner. To Wash, curled up between his footlocker and the wall. Pistol in his hand.

He settles with his back against the wall, cracks open the footlocker.

Everything still there. Toothbrush, soap, shampoo, lined up in a caddy in one corner. Some clothes folded as crisp and neat as the hospital corners on his bunk. Some photos taped to the inside of the lid. Cats. One dog. No people.

_torn you apart just like us_

He wonders, again, if Wash is alive.

Remember him in the snow, still breathing, labored breaths. Gone now. Everyone gone, just tracks in the snow. Where would Wash go? Don't know.

Wonder if Wash was back here again, after the crash. Before they let him out to hunt for—Maine. The Meta. Whatever he was. Whatever they were. Before the EMP. Before the box.

Wasn't good, the two of them out there together. Wash calling him _Meta_. Barely staying in his body, barely real. But it was Wash.

It was… better. Better than the box. Better than nothing.

He leans back against the wall again. Sighs.

Miss him. Hope he's alive.

 

Wash’s datapad’s still in his footlocker. Maine never kept one of his own, never saw the point. The others did though, always scrolling around on Waypoint in the lounges or playing games or watching the newsfeeds. Why you’d want an endless stream of war news and the names of every newly glassed planet at your fingertips Maine doesn’t fucking know. See it soon enough on the vids anyway.

He thumbs the on button. Still works. Powers up and connects to Waypoint, and Maine lets out a breath of laughter. Wherever the fuck they are, in the frozen nowhere on a nothing planet in a remote system, Waypoint still picks up.

The news feed loads automatically and he’s about to swipe it away when something catches his eye.

He has to read the headline three times and it still doesn’t make sense. Nothing else on the page makes sense either. Almost puts the pad away and forgets about it, not relevant right now, but something makes him hesitate, go back and scroll through the feed and try to understand.

He has to skim a couple of articles before it makes sense.

The war's over.

The war’s over. _How?_

_You know a little of the old diplomacy? After all, aren't some of them working with us now?_

_our dear Tex is going to help us_

_We have to win the war, Church_

Over for a while now from the looks of it. Maybe before the box even.

Wash never told him. Never said a thing.

Strange thing to know. Don’t know what to do with it. Don’t know what it means for him now. If it means anything.

He powers off the datapad, sticks in back in Wash’s footlocker and closes the lid.

One more place he has to go.

 

The Number One single is at the end of the corridor. Right beside the elevator.

He almost knocks. Instinct. Stupid, but with the lights back on in the corridor, it feels like—

like before. Almost.

Maybe he shouldn't go in at all. But she's gone—whatever that means. She's not here. Not using it anymore.

He tips his forehead against the door. Sighs heavily, and the crushing ache in his chest isn't from his wounds.

 

Her bunk's not made.

He sucks in a breath, all the way in until it aches sharply on the bad side. Bunk's not reg. _Carolina's_ _room_ isn’t reg.

There’s a pile of stuff just thrown on the floor, which shakes him up more until he remembers the ship crashed, the gravity went off, it probably wasn’t quite like _this_ when she left it. Workout shorts, tank top, sport bra, underwear. A hairbrush. Coffee mug, empty. All fallen in a heap again the aft wall.

Shouldn't be surprised. She wasn't… doing well, in that last week. Hadn't been for a while. Still hurts to see.

He lets the door close behind him. Above, the light flickers.

 

He doesn't open her footlocker. Doesn't look for the box under the bed, the one he knows intimately what's inside. Still feels too much. Too personal. Places he shouldn't go without her. Even if she's gone.

Even if.

He turns the dimmer back down. Enough light to see, but soft. Starts stripping off his armor plate. Piles it on top of the footlocker.

Still in his undersuit, he curls up on the floor. Closes his eyes. Floor stays hard, solid under his weight and the emptiness and silence press in on him from all sides but he doesn’t fall out of his body. Even remembering this room from different angles, from kneeling on her floor and from sitting on the edge of her bed, her face in her hands.

But that’s not his.

Heavy in his own skin, flesh and bone, alive and real, and alone.

He's shaking. Presses his hands over his face, curling his body up as tight as his fucked up ribs will allow without protest. Sinks into the floor. When he pulls them away from his face, the air feels strangely cold on his skin.

 

Out of the darkness, an image pressed quietly into the back of his mind comes forward.

A spark of gold. A shadow in blue. Hand to hip. Grappling gun. Aim. Fire.

Not a memory. Too fuzzy. An impression. Something… constructed. Made. Something left on purpose.

For him.

For _her._

 

For ages in the dark he saw her still falling. Falling and falling, and he was going the wrong way and his body was stolen and he couldn't stop it, couldn't go back, couldn't _help_ her.

Saw her falling and falling.

Never saw her land.

Maybe she never did.

 

His eyes open.

Air isn’t just cold. It’s tears running down his face, soaking into the flat carpet under his cheekbone. Shuddering up from the core of him, from the dark and silent and senseless place he lived alone, shoved down and choked off, smothered by the voices above. He hugs his own body desperately, lying on her floor, sobs until his throat is raw, until his chest hurts like his whole body's going to break apart.

Maybe she is alive. Maybe she's dead. Maybe he's going to die on this cold dead ship and he'll never know. Maybe he's dead already and none of this is real.

Just miss her. Miss her so fucking much.

 

He's stiff and achy when he wakes again, sometime later. Don't remember falling asleep, or dreaming. The lights have gone all the way off in the room, but come back on dim when he moves, groaning, and rolls upright, rubbing his face. Licks his lips, tastes salt.

Hungry again. Have to go get some food. Keep a stock in his room if he's staying.

Is he staying? Going? Where to go. Not going to get far like this. Not without—right. Got that Warthog out there. If it still runs. The Pelican, but he barely got it up out of the water. Won’t fly any distance with a busted wing.

Where would he go, anyway?

 

His hunger isn’t really urgent yet, so he shuffles out of Carolina’s room at an uncertain pace, thinking.

Haven’t been out of his armor in days. Could really use a shower.

Back in his own room, he opens his own footlocker. Don’t know what he expected but everything’s still there the way he kept it. Neat, not fussy. Some gym clothes, few sets of civvies. Toothbrush. Towel. Soap. Shave kit.

He gathers up an armload and shuffles off down the hall.

 

The light blinks on when he steps inside, footfalls echoing the length of the long tiled communal bathroom. Memories rise, soft and translucent like steam, shadows in the long empty row of mirror.

Right. Everyone remembers this. Remember _slicking a palmful of gel through his hair,_ remember _twisting the waxed tip of his mustache to a fine point_ , remember _a cool hand rubbing over his freshly shaved scalp._

That last one. That’s him. That’s Maine. Maine with Connie. Has to be his because she never had an AI. Don’t remember being her.

Mustache has to be Wyoming. The gel, that’s probably York. If he’s gonna have to carry all this shit around, might as well be able to name it. Some others, too, whispering around. Dark-shadowed green eyes, glaring at her own reflection with half-bared teeth, a look so filled with loathing that he shivers.

He forces his own eyes to focus on the mirror in front of him. Focus until he sees his own brown eyes and his own scruffy face and head.

Looks a fucking mess, but at least it’s his.

 

He dumps his shave kit out on the counter and sifts through the contents. Some of the razor blades have gone rusty but he finds a few clean ones, snaps one into the handle.

The water comes on when he turns the handle, spits and sputters for a while before it runs steady, but it runs. Even gets warm. He splashes his face and scalp wet, takes the can of shaving cream and gives it an experimental shake. The bottom of the can’s rusty too, leaves a ring on the counter, but when he presses the nozzle a spurt of foam sprays into his hand.

He goes slow, doing his face first. Hands aren’t as steady as he remembers. Slow strokes down from cheekbone to jaw, jaw to chin, chin down to throat. Throat’s still the hardest to do, with all the scars, but it doesn’t hurt to touch anymore. He takes his time, working around the indents in his skin. Each one a bullet that could’ve killed him and didn’t.

Feels good, somehow.

When his face is done he does his head. No one to check his work. Just his bare hands rubbing his wet skin, feeling for any bits of hair he missed, around the curve of his ears, at the back of his neck. Around his neural implant, at the base of his skull.

Empty now. Always be there though, the hardware laced into his brain. Where they all died. Went out screaming. A graveyard inside his skull.

Swallows hard and stares himself down in the mirror again.

Looks better now. Still sunken cheeks and hollow eyes but his face is shaped right now. Looks like him. Like Maine.

Eight bullet scars in his skin and nine ghosts in his head but he’s still here.

Still Maine.

 

Didn’t realize how much support the undersuit was giving him until he peels it off and inhales too deep and ends up doubled over in agony. Fuck. Don’t know what you do for ribs. Not broken, slashed. Burned. Remember Carolina bending over him in his hospital bed, her torso all bruises. No bandages. Think maybe you aren’t supposed to wrap up your ribs. Not sure.

On the upside, if he was gonna die of sepsis, probably would've done it by now. That dumb stunt with the biofoam might've worked after all. Still breathing.

Not in good shape though. Wasn’t even before the battle in the snow, before Wash.

After the box.

Need to be better. Get his strength back, if he's going to do this. Be alive. Be Maine.

For now, though, just get clean.

Shower takes longer to get warm, but god, it feels good to get under it, rub soap into his armpits and down his chest, even the harsh sting over the burns. Feel the water pour over his skin, running streams down his chest and the back of his neck and—god, it’s so _much_ , really being in his skin. Feels good, but more intense somehow than he ever remembers. Wonder if it’ll always be like this now.

He stands under the water for a while, until it starts to go cold.

 

More lights blink on as he steps out into the locker room, barefoot in cargo pants and a plain t-shirt. Feels colder in here, or maybe that’s just being out of the hot water and out of armor. Long dark rows of lockers, nameplates on nearly all.

He raises a hand as he paces the rows, running his bare fingertips over each nameplate. Remember the ones gone early. Alabama, Arizona, Idaho, Iowa, Ohio, Georgia. Organized by squad, ascending from the entrance to the door that led out to the training rooms. Epsilon, Delta, Gamma, Beta, Alpha. Wasn't even an Epsilon squad after the sim training phase. Delta didn’t last long after that. Lot of washouts. Have to weed out the ones who can't hack it. Just how it is.

The lockers, though. Alphas got the good row only it wasn't really the best, was it. Nothing that great about being closer to the showers. Minor convenience.

But everything was the rankings. Training rooms—Alphas got to use the best ones, and more often. Equipment processing—Alphas got priority. Lockers. Room assignments. Even when and what they ate.

He comes to the locker caved in by Carolina's fist.

Funny how easy he remembers that. The memory just floods his mind, like it’s happening right now. The smash of her force-amped fist hitting the metal, the sound of her hoarse screaming into her fists. Knots his stomach up just like she was right here.

Like it was happening right now. But he knows it's not.

He knows she's gone.

Remember she called for maintenance, too. Never came, then. Never fixed it. Wasn't even her locker. He looks up, his breath catching in his throat.

It was Connie’s.

He sits, puts his palm against the concave metal, feeling the cold on his palm. Exhales. Maybe if he had gone to her, right then. Maybe everything would've turned out different.

But no. That was Sigma's idea. Doing what Sigma wanted wouldn't have changed anything. Just made something else happen. Made it happen faster. Maybe.

Don't know. Can't. Stop trying. No way to follow that trail for real.

He pulls his hand away from the locker. Covers his face with both hands.

Would do anything to make it all not have happened.

 

With the power back, the leaderboard is back too, glowing blue on the wall at the far end of the Alpha row, straight opposite the exit to the training rooms. He looks, stares it down until his eyes blur, wondering for a second if it's not real, another too-sharp memory rattling out of his head.

But it's real.

It's the same.

That's not right. It shouldn't be the _same_.

1 TEXAS  
2 CAROLINA  
3 YORK  
4 WYOMING  
5 NORTH DAKOTA  
6 WASHINGTON  
7 MAINE  
8 SOUTH DAKOTA

The longer he stares at, the longer he can't remember the last time it did change. After the scrapyard? Longshore?

Only remember coming out of implantation and seeing it for the first time, TEXAS in the number one spot. Did it ever change after that? He can’t remember.

Can’t remember—

and the locker room tunnels, and he is two places. Sitting on the bench, his weapon disassembled in his hands. Hovering at Carolina’s shoulder, so close he can see the tangles in her hair and the sweat beaded on her temples

_just not good enough_

the leaderboard behind her, white letters on blue

and it’s the same. He’s certain it’s the same

not because Maine knew. Because Sigma did.

_see what we can accomplish when we work together_

He’s gripping the bench, white-knuckled in the heat of the memory, burning in his chest. Feeling it like it’s happening all over again—how he really felt for that moment that he’d taken something from her. That it was his fault. That Sigma was hers.

For a moment alone and terrified of something he couldn’t define.

 _wouldn't_ _you say you owe her something in return_

All of Sigma’s words tangled up in his head and he knows he should try to take them apart, separate what was true from what was lies. Not sure he can even do that. Not sure it was every as simple as lies, with Sigma.

Hard enough to separate out real from not real right now.

 

There’s more to do, more places to look, but he’s hungry. Always hungry. Least now he can take care of that easier.

He makes his way back to the mess, back to the case of meal drinks he ripped open. Earlier. Before. Don’t know what day it is, how long it’s been. Wasn’t looking at his HUD clock then, nothing to compare to now.

Easier now with the lights on. He finds chocolate protein shakes this time. Carries a couple out to the mess, sits himself at a table. Doesn’t even think, until he sits, that he went to their table automatically. His, Wash’s, Connie’s.

Forget sometimes that Connie’s dead. Remember that now. Tex told him. The fight in the bunker, the axe cleaving through the armor and into Connie’s chest. Remember that, too.

He rubs the dust from the lid of the can before popping it open. Sighs.

 

He can’t move real fast out of armor but he can breathe well enough to get around, so it’s as good a time as any to take stock of his armor. See what he can do to get it fixed up. Maybe no point, but it’s something to do. Sure as hell not in any shape to leave the ship, him or the suit. And no more Armor Processing to repair and replace and shine everything up in time for the next drop. On his own.

Plate's mostly all right except for the breastplate. Took the worst of the damage. Pitted by shotgun shells, and two narrow slits seared through it on the left side, edges blackened. Come out the other side, smaller, top one right through the equipment slot. Looks so small and clean on the armor. Lot uglier what it did to his insides.

But he's still breathing.

Wash's M11 in the right side. A good throw. One of the equipment slots is gouged too. Startles him to see. Forgot about that. Tex’s knife there.

Not Tex. It can’t have been her. Haven’t really had time to think about that but… it was her and it wasn’t. Like her and not like her. Inside his head and outside.

_You’re gonna make it out of this_

_So long, cockbite_

Shakes his head. Don’t understand that. But it was all real. Had to be. Got the damage to prove it.

Can't fix the plate, not really, but he can put some field sealant on it. Still be structural weaknesses, but less bad. Should have some of the sealant in his old locker.

His locker.

 

Never did keep much in here. Wash's locker was like his footlocker back in the room: lot of personal things but all shipshape. A sailor boy. Connie used to say _Boy Scout._ But you can always tell who spent a lot of time on ships. Their spaces are perfectly neat but also comfy. Lived in. Skateboard, towels, those cat pictures. Two years grounded in the ice and Wash's towels are clean and folded, the corners still crisp.

Maine's locker. Less neat but plainer. Just equipment and supplies. Honing blade, gun oil, specialized hand tools, wax and sealant. When you’re ground Infantry you tend not to get comfy on the boat. Won’t be staying long. Different in Freelancer, but old habits die hard.

The armor sealant comes out of a tube in a paste. Hardens when exposed to air. You smear it into the breach and then buff it out smooth. When he uncaps it, it’s bright white, whiter than the plate is now. Should clean the armor first. Forgot about that.

Whole process takes a while. Can't move as quick as he used to. He takes a rag and some solvent to the plate, rubs it down until he starts wheezing from the fumes and has to take a break to let it air out. Come back to seal up the burn marks, the crack where the knife stabbed through. Leave it harden. Won’t be long.

Over to the back. The equipment slots.

The one in the left side slot is fucked. No way around that. Not many pieces of equipment can take a hot plasma blade through the middle and still function. Not many human bodies either.

Domed energy shield. North's.

Don't think he'll ever be able to think of North and not see that big curved blade going through his chest. Through the armor plate and right between the ribs. Blood rushing up out of the chasm opened in him. Theta screaming. Outside and then inside.

He shivers, rubs his forehead. Too many feelings all at once. A cluster of memories all crowding around the one thing, anger and shock, resignation and disbelief, terror and grief.

Remember those most of all because they felt like he did.

He swallows. Trying to pull himself out of it. It's hard. The memories are so _much,_ when they get going, opening up and spilling into each other. No wonder he wasn't sure who he was when they took him out of the box.

Maine. Maine. Be Maine.

Doesn’t help much to say it wasn’t him. Still his hands. Still his visor North got to stare into, last thing before he died. Still Maine who let Sigma in there, fell for that whisper, _Do you trust me,_ until it was too late to say no, too late to make it all stop.

Maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe he’s just that weak.

His hands are shaking.

_North, say something._

He lets his breath out sharply. Live or don’t. Already decided. No fucking point to this. Not going to bring him back.

Not her either, if she’s really gone.

He yanks the busted shield unit from the enhancement slot. Thinks a minute. Finds North's locker and sets the unit inside.

 

There are wires snaking into the same slot. From the storage compartment, through a hole that's definitely not supposed to be there. That hot-wire job. Right.

He opens the compartment and starts undoing the wiring. Careful. Don't want to fuck it up. Unit should still be good if he just installs it properly. Being invisible doesn't sound bad. Could be useful.

He thinks of her again, Texas. Tex. The real Tex, from before. The one who tried to help him, over and over. Even when he knew it was too late.

_You're gonna make it out of this. Hang on. Just hang on._

One who thought he was worth saving, apparently.

He shakes his head, tries to stay focused on the work. Underneath, some new pain breaks in his chest. Something not from before.

 

Camo unit’ll fit. But before he can install it, have to replace the fried power supply underneath it. Means getting into Armor Processing and finding one. Not hard. Nothing's locked on the ship anymore. On an inhabited planet, it'd have been picked clean by scavengers. Here, no one to scavenge but sim troopers. And how many even know the ship is here?

Never been back in the Armor Processing bay. Never had a reason to. Strange, to see all the components laid out in pieces, like a soldier taken apart.

The enhancement power adapter isn't hard to find. Wonder how many of those they blew out in the field during training. Probably a lot. Know he did it a few times, running the overshields too long, before the rule came down about equipment in the field without AI.

The new power supply goes in, and the camo unit. His overshield's on the other side. Still works, from what he can remember. Have to test it out later.

Sealant's hardened up, so he finds some grit paper and starts to grind it down. Buff it out smooth until you almost can’t tell. Then wax over and buff until you really can’t. It’s a good task. Nice, simple, repetitive. Keep his hands moving, his mind quieter for a while.

When he's finished, the plate gleams white, pure white again, and waxy-smooth.

 

Undersuit’s more of a problem. The gel layer will expand and harden and temporarily seal up a small enough breach, but without proper repairs the suit’s functionality is going to be limited. No idea what to do about that. There’s a lot of equipment back in Armor Processing but Maine really can’t make heads or tails of it. Never had to know. Armor went into the chute after a mission, came back to him spitshined and good as new. None of the memories have the answers here.

Feels almost stupid, now. His own second skin, countless hours in the field keeping him alive, and he’s got no idea how it really works. Body fixes itself, more or less, if he can just keep it breathing and his heart beating. But need the know-how to fix up his tech.

The one thing he can figure out how to operate is the cleaning rig. Controls are manual and it’s kind of self-explanatory. Suit gets hung on a rack, hung inside the machine that’s Maine’s full height almost. Door closes, locks, and the console asks, BEGIN CLEANING CYCLE?

He taps YES.

Only takes maybe ten minutes to run. Figured it’d be longer somehow, though when he thinks about it, his armor always did come back to him fast after a mission. Done by the time he was out of the shower.

When the lock releases and he opens the door, there’s his suit, clean and dry and faintly warm to the touch.

Good enough for now.

 

He doesn’t armor up again right away.

The ship’s warm, now, with life support running. Warm enough to walk around in civvies. So used to being in armor it feels like being naked, almost nothing between the open air and his skin.

It’s strange and somehow he likes it.

If he wanted, he could walk the ship actually naked. No one to stop him. No one to stare. Sometimes after he wakes up in his bed he just pads down to the mess in his underwear. Something funny about that. Can’t explain it. Shouldn’t be funny, being alone on this ship with everyone he knows dead or gone. Still. Something about walking the long corridors and shuffling into the kitchen to find breakfast in nothing but his boxer-briefs makes him snicker to himself.

His old t-shirts don’t fit as snug as they used to. Old khaki cargo pants sag a little on his hips. Must’ve lost weight. Probably a lot of his muscle mass with it. In the box, stopped moving for a long time. Should eat as much as he can. Try to get his weight back up, get his strength back. He digs through the abandoned kitchen, finds mashed potato flakes, powdered milk, instant rice and noodles. Macaroni and cheese with the powdered cheese mix. Not much. But better than endless chalky shakes from a can.

There’s no day or night on the dead ship. Will be outside, on the planet, but the daylight out there doesn’t really matter in here. He starts setting reminders in his HUD clock: breakfast, lunch, dinner, sleep, instead of just eating when he gets too hungry to ignore it and sleeping when he’s too tired to move anymore.

Counting from food to food. Like in the box. But better food now. And not trapped. If he wants to, he can leave.

Need to get some strength back first.

In the meantime he walks the ship, picks through the remains of Project Freelancer and what was once home.

 

The medical bay, the residential deck, are in the heart of the ship and mostly intact. Move outward, nearer to the hull, and the damage starts to show. The squad lounge has streaks of discoloration down the wall paneling, stained patches at the edge of the ceiling, the carpet soggy. Some of the training rooms are like that too, puddles on the floor, stained walls, the leaderboard half-black and sparking. Can see some active drips here and there. Crash must've done more damage to the hull than what you can see. Maybe just tearing through atmo did it. Ripped it at the seams. And two years of snow and ice build-up, and then turning life support back on. Heat. Melt creeping in.

Training Room A’s furthest from the hull and in the best shape. The circular one, with its observation balcony above. Forgot about the coffee vending machine up here. It blinks to life when he pokes it, just for the hell of it, and spits a stream of coffee into a paper cup. Warm, even. He picks up, takes a sip. Never was much of a coffee drinker. Not like York who drank his pale and sweet in the mess in the morning, not like Carolina who drank hers black and bitter as death. This coffee tastes stale but still like her, in the morning before training, and… he shouldn’t remember that, never woke up with her in the mornings except the once, and in the mess and on their way to training they never exchanged more than a quick look.

He takes another sip anyway, and the familiarity burns in his throat and his chest feels tight.

He goes to the window looking down on the training floor, puts his hand to the foggy glass, and for a moment sees a reflection in the glass that isn’t him—white but the helmet wrong, and a smear of blue-gray light at his side. Someone who always seemed to be there, watching.

Everywhere he goes, memories unspool in paths he can't control. Sometimes just fuzzy impressions, flashes or voices half-there, leaking in where they don’t belong. Echoes in the silent corridors of his mind, like his footsteps echoing in heart of the silent ship.

 

Weight room isn’t in great shape either. The mats piled along the right hand wall are soggy and smell like mildew. Chrome finish flaking off the machines, rust showing. All the big iron free weights by the bench have gone to rust. One rack of weights has stayed upright somehow, the other tipped over, spilling its heavy disks across the floor like dominoes.

Still weight, though.

He’s started doing some cautious push-ups in his room when he gets up in the morning, or what he calls the morning. Not a lot. Ribs still ache, not sure how hard he should push. Get winded a lot faster too. Not strong anymore. But he needs to do something.

Maybe never be back to where he was, not in his body or his mind either. But better than nothing.

He starts with a light load, the first time he tries the bench. No one to spot him now. No one to hear if he slips, drops the bar and crushes his trachea. No one to put him back together now. He goes easy but he sees it happening, over and over until the image blurs meaningless behind his eyes.

 

It's not really something he thinks too hard about. Just grabs a duffel one day and loads up his things: what clothes he has, toothbrush, soap, shave kit, a couple of towels. Some shakes and some protein bars and some bottled water.

When he cleans out his footlocker he finds something else in the bottom. Something he missed before. A knife, not his. Maine never used knives. Not a standard M11 either. A custom combat knife with a heart shape cut out of the blade.

Can feel the memory there but it takes a minute to push through to it. Blue, the blue barrel of a plasma rifle, the blade stuck into it, fallen on the dock. Longshore.

Meant to give it to her. Forgot. Or never got the chance. It’s in better shape than he’d expect after two years. No rust on the blade. Protected from moisture inside his footlocker, underneath his clothes. He rubs the edge of a spare t-shirt over the blade, and in the low light of the room it still shines.

He puts the knife in his bag.

 

Armors up again. Seals his body inside his second skin. Not in great shape, but his. Goes into the unlocked armory, picks out a new battle rifle and standard-issue Magnum sidearm. Ammo for both. Fires off a few rounds from each, into the wall of an empty training room, making sure they still work.

It's snowing, when he steps out of the elevator into the dead bridge, silver-white daylight pouring in through the gaping hull breach and snow swirling in on the wind. Colder here. He doesn't look back to the war room, doesn't look left to the lab, doesn't look forward to the dark console at the center bridge platform. Takes the stairs down to the lower level instead, and climbs out through the breach into the snow.

 

It was on the other side. Got that mixed up in his head until now, turned around and backwards, but with the impression in his head coming more clear, and the memories too, he can see it now. This is where he fell. Around the other side of the ship—that was where he let her fall.

He stands for a minute anyway. Looks down at the water, ice floes bobbing in the waves, knocking against the ice wall far below.

Thinks of a hook catching in the ice.

Can see it so clearly now. Played the image over and over in his head, trying to get it into focus. Not just the picture itself but the feeling—Io's feeling—when she pushed it, quickly and without warning, into Carolina's mind and then into his.

He might be wrong. It might not mean anything. Or it might not have worked even if it did.

Could take off his helmet right now, drop it in the snow and take a dive off the cliff. It'd be quick with no helmet. Same way it would've been for her. Can still put a bullet in his broken brain, if all else fails.

But he stares off into the white horizon through his dimmed visor and he knows he won’t. Not just can’t—though he can’t either, not until he’s sure. But won’t. In his mind, he’s watched his death play out a dozen different ways since he crawled out of the water, out of the ice—weeks ago, he guesses, he hasn’t really been keeping track. If he really wanted it, he knows in his gut, he would’ve let it take him. Wouldn’t have had to work hard for it either.

Worked hard to live instead, so he must want that. Some part of him at least. Stronger than the rest.

So, only one thing left to do.

But where to look. She could be anywhere in the galaxy by now.

 

No way off this planet for him. Only FTL vessel he knows about is right here and she's sure not flying again. Only time he's been offworld since the crash was when they put him in the box.

Rather be dead than back there.

But the Warthog's still here, fallen on its side where it tumbled off the roof of the Pelican on landing. If you could call it a landing. He reaches under the hog, grips the undercarriage, flexes his force amps and flips it upright. Reels the cable back in. Dumps his duffel in the passenger seat and climbs into the driver’s side.

Don't know where he's going. Don't know where he'll end up. No leads from here. Carolina's gone. Wash is gone. Maybe dead, maybe alive.

Wash is probably alive. Shouldn't look for him. Not after everything that happened.

Carolina… probably not here. Probably not anywhere he can get to.

But the ship's dead. Nothing worth staying for. Gotta keep on moving, if he's gonna do this. Stay alive.

Be Maine.


	4. Seek

It's too cold to keep his helmet off, feel the wind on his face, but just moving feels good. The rumble of the Warthog beneath him is comfortable, rolling bumpily away through the snow, finding a path between the mountains.

He remembers what's directly to the south. Sidewinder. Beyond that, Valhalla. Lot of memories there. Maine's and not Maine's. All mixed up together.

He bears southeast instead.

 

For a long time he just drives, the only feeling the rumble of the hog and the bumps in the terrain. Snowy hills level out into a long expanse of flat frozen ground, stretching out to the too-near horizon. It's overcast, gray above, gray below.

In the distance, something dark juts from the snow.

Maine blinks. Getting a little sleepy at the wheel. Might be a base up there. Somewhere to break for the night. If there is night. The light seems to be lasting a long time.

The thing ahead grows in his vision. Takes on a familiar shade of gray-brown.

 

It is a base. Nestled into a wide crevice in the snow, natural or human- or alien-made he can't tell.

Nothing on radar. No hostiles, no friendlies, nothing. Good.

He parks the hog. Sweeps the exterior of the shallow canyon—another identical base at the far end, of course there is. Sweeps the interior of both. Have to have been a sim base, but no one here now. Good enough.

The southern base seems long-abandoned, bare and with few supplies.

The northern base is different.

 

He doesn't really have it in his head to explore much. Mostly just thinking about getting some sleep and moving on.

But there are signs of life.

For one thing, there’s a bunk made. Not quite what he'd call _shipshape_ but reg for sure. Not like Wash but like someone he knows.

A smell, too. Faint in the crisp, cold air when he takes his helmet off. Can't place it until he opens the footlocker tucked beneath the neatly-made bunk.

 _Hyperion Shine_  
_Fine Hair Dressing_  
_Product of Mars_

He pries the little tin open, and there it is. The scent. He knows that.

There are other things too. A comb. A datapad. He swipes the screen, thinking it'll be dead, but it lights up.

ENTER PASSWORD

RSW0264BCF1397

Doesn’t mean anything to him, the string of letters and numbers rising to his consciousness, but he remembers. Taps them in slowly, carefully. The memory comes back easy but his hands don't move so quick on the touchscreen keypad.

It works. Somehow he knew it would.

The wallpaper's a photo of somewhere, some unfamiliar city. Could probably find where if he pushed deeper into the memories. Don't want to do that, though.

He sets the datapad aside while he settles in for the night. Fixes up some food. Drops his things by the made-up bunk, which gives him a snicker. Wyoming would probably kill anyone he found sleeping in his bed.

Never knew much about Wy back then. Older than most of them, not his first assignment to Special Projects. Knew he and Florida were partners from previous assignments. Didn't know they were that kind of partners too.

He remembers things now. Private things, things he shouldn't know.

He goes back to the datapad while he eats, looking for something to kill the time and distract him from the taste of the mushy chicken enchilada meal he's mindlessly squeezing out of the warmed foil packet and into his mouth.

There are orders from after the mutiny, logs of Wyoming’s progress. He has spotty memories of that. Gamma wasn’t there for all of it. Picked it up later.

Then there are the messages.

 

_Dearest Butch,_

_I regret missing the opportunity to say a proper goodbye before your redeployment, but I do hope you’re doing well in your new assignment. It may be some time before we can see each other. I’m sure minding that lot of rabble is keeping you quite occupied. The old man has me stationed groundside at present; I of course cannot discuss the details at this time, as I’m sure is your situation as well. But be assured of my continuing affections until we meet again._

_Yours most fondly,_  
_Reg_

 

_My dear Butch,_

_It seems we may have occasion to see one another in our present assignments after all. I understand my primary target has been sighted near your outpost. I must admit, I expected our dear Texas to be rather more clever than all that, but here it is, and if all goes according to plan, you may be seeing me soon. I will of course avoid interfering with your assignment._

_I do hope you're taking proper care of yourself and finding the weather in your canyon tolerable. It's frightfully cold at my present location. I may take the liberty of securing an alternate base of groundside operations. I'm sure it's all the same to the old man._

_Yours,_  
_Reginald_

 

_Butch,_

_The activation of your beacon has me beset with some alarm. Please respond as soon as you are able._

_Reg._

 

_My dearest Butch_

_More I cannot offer you than to avenge your untimely demise. If I have regrets, I will not speak of them._

_Yours, bereaved_  
_Reginald_

 

He turns off the datapad. Puts it back in the footlocker.

Curls up in the bunk in just his undersuit, a hollow feeling in his chest. The only sound from outside is the howling of the wind.

He doesn’t sleep well.

 

But he does sleep.

Found some hot cocoa packets among the food supply, and there’s a hot plate to boil water. He mixes up a cup and it’s good, really good, even though he burns his tongue from drinking it too fast. Over breakfast, he goes through the datapad some more. Lot of notes from Wyoming's primary mission, tracking Agent Texas after she went rogue. One mention of York. Knew York was dead, and he has to stop and think about that for a minute because he doesn’t remember killing York. He didn’t. They didn’t. He remembers because of Delta.

It’s two lines in Wyoming’s log. _Tex_ _’s little partner in crime, as it were._ Wy was focused. If it wasn't part of his mission, it wasn't relevant.

Nothing about Carolina.

So nothing here for Maine.

He slips the datapad back into the footlocker. Remakes the bed, which is stupid, because Wyoming's dead too

_Reggie?_

and there's no one here anymore. Still feels right, somehow, to leave quiet. Leave everything exactly like it was, except for two meals gone.

Soon as he’s done eating he packs up and heads out, bearing south.

 

He drives for a long time. Over snow, and then hard frosty ground, and then bare ground and softening terrain. Low ground plants and then trees, growing thicker, and soon the sounds of birds.

Eventually the land turns to full swamp, and he’s driving on twisting strips of more or less solid ground between long stretches of marsh and pond. Tires kick up mud, splattering his armor. Somewhere deep in the wetlands, he comes across what looks to be the only solid ground for kilometers. Signs of camp, a fire pit. Wonder who was here. He thinks of the Dakotas, wandering the planet for months after the crash, just the two of them, avoiding the sim bases, avoiding any other signs of life. Maybe they stopped here. One of many places.

He could stay, but there's still daylight to travel and he's not tired enough to want more than a brief rest. The driving feels good. Not thinking about time, just moving. Even if he has no idea where to go. Besides, the swamp is buggy, and even with his helmet on he can feel things swarming around his head. Driving he can take it off for a while, feel the wind on his face.

So he leaves the campsite behind, and drives on.

 

He isn't really paying much attention to where he's going, until a map marker pops up at the edge of his HUD map. A place he's been before.

FREELANCER OPERATIONAL COMMAND CENTER

Maine stomps on the brake on instinct. Fuck. Command. Didn't notice he was that far east. That far south. Already?

Time is maybe still a problem. Easy to just zone out driving alone.

Command.

 _Place is a ghost town, now._ What Wash said.

Might be able to learn something there.

 

Except it's not a ghost town anymore.

The place is swarming with activity, masses of dots popping on his radar when he gets within range. Why? Doesn't make sense. Why empty when he and Wash came, and now active again?

There's an uneasiness in his stomach that tells him to leave. Turn around, drive as far as he can in whatever direction. Can't fight through waves and waves of armed guards, not like when—

He's not _strong_ anymore. Not like he was, not even like _they_ were. Don't even have his favorite weapon. Just a standard BR and his Magnum and one and a half lungs.

He's not in any shape for a fight. They'll catch him. Put him back in the box.

He can't. He _can't._ Rather be dead than go back in there.

 

He's already got the hog turned around, ready to head back north into the swamp. Stupid. Where can he go? Back to the ship? Live there in its empty, broken shell? And do what? Eat and sleep and pick through the ruins and the memories of his old life, of all their old lives, until he dies?

No. Not what he survived for.

Not what he climbed out of the water for, shot himself up with adrenaline for, sucked biofoam into his lungs and crawled on his hands and knees when he couldn’t walk, when he could barely breathe.

 _Live_. Keep moving.

Find a lead.

 

Don't have to get real close to see the place is in heavy lockdown. Armed guards at all the entry checkpoints again, more like—

like the first time. Remember footsteps heavy with Tex's resolve, pushing them forward

_You're gonna make it out of this. Hang on._

only no radar jam now. Not hiding the place. No one left to hide it from, maybe.

He hangs back for a while, circling the perimeter and peering through his rifle scope at each of the entry points in turn. Enough of a gap when a vehicle passes through the gate and the gate closes behind it. Maybe. If you time it right. Hard to say. His BR only has a 2x zoom and he can’t get much closer without risk of being spotted.

No vehicles coming in or out big enough to hitch a ride. Jumping on the back of a Warthog, his weight would give him away. Even in the active camo whose shimmer blends in with the heat wavering up from the sand. Always was shit at stealth.

Have to be careful. Can't get caught.

If they catch him, they'll have to kill him. Not going back.

But maybe he doesn’t have to get inside at all.

 

He flips to the old Recovery COM.

There's chatter. They're using it again. He wonders for a second if they forgot they made him a Recovery Agent, gave him access to all the channels, before he remembers he’s probably dead on the books.

Bet his old Recovery credentials would still get him inside. Would also tell everyone he's alive. No one would know him. But the system would log it, they'd know. The Director, the Counselor. Whoever’s still watching.

He can listen, though.

 

"Seriously? More of you?"

"Hey, don't look at me, man. I just go where they tell me. Chairman wants increased security here. Some breach you guys had."

Chairman?

"Tell _me_ about a breach. Been getting heat about that for a week. Doubt you got the full story."

"Yeah, whatever. Who do we see about our quarters?"

"Barracks are on the east side. Talk to Tibbs about a bed, if there are any left."

" _If?_ What are we supposed to do, sleep on the ground?"

"Pretty much. They keep sending us rookies to beef up the numbers, we're gonna run out of bunks. If we haven't already."

"Great."

"Go on, hustle up. And don't get too comfy here. Probably ship half of you back out within the week."

"Thanks," the rookie mutters.

A snicker. "What was all that about 'the full story,' Koop?"

"Come on, Ramirez. Bullshit those were all sim troops. Total bullshit. I was on clean-up at Rat's Nest before I got assigned to this crater and no way those brainless spuds could've pulled off this caper. No way."

"So…" says Ramirez, deadpan, "what."

"They had a Freelancer. At least one. I don't care what the security footage says. That was not a fuckin' _sim trooper_ maneuver. They had help."

"From who? They're all dead. We saw the reports."

"Sure, that's what they _want_ us to believe."

"Oh my god, _whatever_ , Kupferschmidt. Have fun with your conspiracy theories. I'm gonna do my job so I can get out of this dump."

A snort. "Good luck with that. Let me know how that works out for you. Write me all about it when you get back home to your girl and everything's fine and dandy back on Earth—"

"I'm not even _from_ Earth—"

"—and you're no longer wasting your youth on some backwater clean-up op."

"Better this than Innies. Or Covies. Least that's over with."

"Maybe. Always be something, though."

"True enough."

The channel goes quiet for a moment.

"They didn't even take anything valuable. Just some busted up hardware—"

"Oh my _god_ , Koop."

 

Wash. Probably Wash. Almost certainly Wash. Wouldn't be the first time he broke into Command with a bunch of sim troopers.

There's a lot of channels on the Recovery COM, a lot of idle chatter, and he can't scan and log them like an AI can. Like the Twins did. Remember that.

Flip to one. Listen until he's bored. Flip to the next.

 

"Command, come in Command, this is Team Echo, we need extraction! We are stranded, repeat, Team Echo is stranded at Outpost 17, need extraction."

"Are you fucking kidding me, Echo?"

He knows that voice. Why does he know that voice?

“Negative, Command.”

"We sent you up there with two Hornets. What the hell happened?"

"We were overpowered and our vehicles hijacked, Command."

"You're telling me you lost _two aircraft_ to _simulation troopers?"_

"Uh," the voice says uncomfortably. "Yeah. That's what I'm saying."

"What is the status of these simulation troopers who managed to overpower your entire team and make off with _two aircraft?"_

"They uh, they got away, Command."

The Command voice—he _knows_ that voice, and it's his memory—sighs irritably. "Of course they did."

"Can you send someone to pick us up, or?"

"You might want to get comfy, Echo."

"Aw, man!"

Outpost 17. That he knows.

 

He spots two Pelicans flying overhead as he heads west. Signs of life. Planet feels a lot less deserted now. Not sure he likes that. Worked in his favor here, though. Know something now. Something up north. Something happened at Valhalla.

Lot of things happen at Valhalla. Lot of things seem to lead there.

_Just tell me, can you get us there?_

_I am unable to calculate._

_Sheila, give me manual control, now!_

She was scared. Tex was scared. He remembers that. Didn't happen often. But she made it. Went down in that canyon, survived. Lost her body maybe, but lived. Lived until—

until they all went out.

He shivers.

Shouldn't miss any of them, but. Her, he kind of does. Sorry she's dead. She was always good to him.

 

It’s a long drive back northwest, into the mountains and up the eastern shore of the lake. Stops once along the way for a bite, a nap in the driver’s set. Doesn’t linger long anywhere.

He goes back into camo when he reaches the canyon, coming from the southeast, driving through the shallows onto the beach behind Red Base. Parks behind the base, out of sight of most of the canyon. Some dots on his HUD, that Echo team lurking around. Waiting for their ride. Could probably take one or two at a time if it came to that. But rather not kill anyone if he doesn't have to. They don't have anything to do with this. Not what he's here for. Active camo hides him, but the Warthog—

Wait.

Maine reaches under the dash, hand finding the box and the switch. _Vehicle camo_. Their Warthog. The one Wash took from Command. Right. Forgot about that.

The Warthog vanishes to a shimmer in the sun.

 

Red Base is so much the same. Knew it would be like this, but god, those memories come back strong—not just Eta's and Sigma's and Io's but _his._ Those brief fragments of awareness, the sun sparkling off the water. The taste of Garfield's cigarettes, standing on the upper deck watching up canyon.

God, he remembers everything.

The Reds. So good to him even though it wasn't really him. Even though the taste of hot chocolate and shortbread cookies couldn't fight the nightmare he was trapped in. Could bring him to surface, briefly, but for what. What good was it then.

And he remembers jumping from one to the other, to the other, watching with a vicious pleasure as they turned on each other, _just like they made us do._

Remember killing them one by one.

 

There's nothing interesting in Echo Team's radio chatter. Should keep it on just in case, but the sporadic noise in his ear is irritating and after a while he turns it off.

The base _has_ changed, though. Makes him blink, for a moment, thinking his head's messed up or he's remembering again because the bunk that should be torn off the wall, isn't. It's fixed. Two bunks made up. One messy, unmade, but used. Three footlockers.

Something else he doesn't remember: at the back of the base, there’s a big piece of wall missing.

Missing? Not missing. Open. The panel’s there, slid aside, revealing—

a lift, and a long shaft going down.

 

There's something under Red Base.

He does not remember this. _No_ part of him remembers this. In fact, he is absolutely certain this was not here before and it's rare, these days, that he's that fucking sure about anything.

This is new. Maybe not new since he was here with Wash, he didn't search the base that carefully then. But new since _before._ New since he was a Red—since they were.

Knowing that's comforting, somehow.

He steps in. One of those freight elevator type things, just a metal platform with railings, a lever and a hand crank. Only two ways to go, up and down.

He throws the lever, turns the crank, and descends past a long strip of concrete wall.

 

Overhead lights blink on as the lift deposits him on a landing, with a long ramp descending into a wide open chamber. As the lights come on, a grid of blue-white light pops to life just above the floor.

What is this place?

A flash of light in his peripheral vision catches his eye as he moves toward the ramp. A control panel set into the wall.

WELCOME, NEW USER. YOU HAVE ENTERED THE LP7000 PERSONAL HOLOCHAMBER. WOULD YOU LIKE TO RUN THE TUTORIAL PROGRAM? Y/N

He selects N. The text scrolls away, replaced by a menu.

WELCOME TO THE LP7000 HOLOCHAMBER.  
WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE TO DO?

> START A NEW PROJECT  
> OPEN AN EXISTING PROJECT  
> ENTER BUILD MODE (RECOMMENDED FOR ADVANCED USERS ONLY)

Maine selects > OPEN AN EXISTING PROJECT. Another menu.

> CODEWORD: SHOTGUN  
> FOR SIMMONS' EYES ONLY!! KEEP OUT!!!  
> MISSION BRIEFING: OPERATION FOXHOLE  
> NAP SIMULATOR  
> ODIO A CADA UNO DE USTEDES Y ESPERO QUE TODOS USTEDES MUERAN  
> OPERATION: EMPTASTIC

The last one catches his eye first. When he opens it, it's just a bunch of plans for modifying a Warthog with an EMP. Don't know why you'd want to do that. Just make the hog stall out.

Actually. You could make it work, if you installed EMP-shielding on the hog's chassis. Same kind of material as their armor plating. Only works against non-nuclear EMP, but that's what's on this diagram, if he's reading it right.

Love these holo-schematics. Good, visual, 3D. Easy to read. Standing in the middle of the floor, manipulating the images with his hands, turning them to see from every angle. Some text but you don't need it, not really. Not if you know what you're looking at. Maine touches the Warthog's chassis and immediately an array of options pop up. He flips through them. Not what he's looking for. Hmm. How to tell the computer what he means.

He taps his fingers on his own breastplate and another option appears, holographic text appearing before his eyes in bright bluish white.

TAP AGAIN TO ANALYZE

He does, and his own armor appears in the air, in transparent light, text appearing beside it as the computer runs its analysis.

FREELANCER INTEGRATED COMBAT ARMOR SYSTEM

> COMPOSITE PLATE ARMOR  
> PRESSURE-SEALED UNDERSUIT  
> AIR FILTRATION AND EMERGENCY AIR SUPPLY  
> LOW-LOSS WATER RECYCLING  
> NON-NUCLEAR EMP SHIELDING  
> PRESSURE-SENSITIVE MODULATING GEL LAYER  
> UPGRADES AVAILABLE

The list scrolls on, but he taps ADD TO DATABASE? and the image blinks once. PROCESSING… DATABASE UPDATED.

When he taps the chassis of the holographic Warthog again, there are new material options available.

NON-NUCLEAR EMP SHIELDING. ADD TO MODEL?

There. Maine smiles to himself. Maybe that'll help somebody out later.

He almost hits RENDER, because playing around with an experimental vehicle sounds like fun and he hasn't had… well, anything like that kind of _fun_ in a long time.

But he came here for something. Almost forgot.

Doesn't register until he closes the Warthog plans, reads the file menu a second time.

Only one here doesn't sound like the others.

 

> MISSION BRIEFING: OPERATION FOXHOLE

Funny how a bunch of photographs, video footage, schematics and bullet-point notes can knock the breath right out of him.

Everything about this feels familiar.

Not the images themselves. Never seen this place before, not in any of the memories dumped into his skull. Unremarkable ruins, crumbling concrete and smashed-out windows overgrown with grass and brush, cinder block walls buckled by tree roots. Nowhere he knows. Not that or the schematic of an underground bunker that expands when he touches it, details rendering on contact, growing from nondescript walls made of light to full three-dimensional images, rust streaks on walls bursting into color.

Not that. Everything else. The way the notes are organized, clean and clear and in precisely the order you need to know them, the filenames simple and intuitive, each bullet point auto-linking to the relevant images, the entry point and path to the objective highlighted in yellow.

Clear as if he'd watched her present it with her own hands.

He stares until his eyes blur, a tightness in his chest that has nothing to do with his fucked-up lung, and swallows hard. Realizes a minute later he's hugging his own torso, hands gripping his breastplate so hard they cramp.

The LAST MODIFIED date on this project is two days ago.

This is her work. Carolina. She was _here._ In this _room_.

She's alive.


	5. Find

His hands are shaking as the lift carries him back to the ground floor, the mission plans uploaded to his helmet. His limbs feel loose and shaky and unreal and maybe his lungs are fucking up again after all because in the silence when he stops moving, inside his helmet he can hear a wheezing sound in his own breath.

He pulls his helmet off as he steps out the back of the base, coming to a stop by the shoreline.

The sky is bright over the mountains. Some clouds, silver-white and drifting east, but the sun has a clear spot to shine through, and the lake sparkles with yellow light.

Feel like he's going to collapse. Like his whole body might just give out from the shock of it. Fall face first in the sand and the shallows. He hugs himself tight, fingers curled around the edges of his breastplate, like he’s trying to stop himself from flying apart. Still can't stop shaking.

She's alive. Been alive this whole time. He didn't kill her.

He didn't kill her.

 

There's no chance of sleeping, not with the coordinates loaded into his HUD and his Warthog fueled and ready to go. Don’t have a good sense of how much daylight is left—in fact day and night have still sort of blurred together in his head since he left the ship—but hell if that matters.

His stomach's too nervous to eat but he needs the energy, so he cracks open a chocolate protein shake on the go, sucking down half of it in one gulp and barely tasting it, one hand on the wheel as he rolls out of Valhalla, heading through the shallows to the mountain pass that will carry him west.

 

The trip takes him past sundown. Not bad. Nice driving at night, less risk of being spotted and just the headlights and sounds of native insects for company. Just following that map marker. An objective.

A mission of his own.

It's not swampy on the west side of the lake. Mountain ridge down the shoreline, and higher altitude even past the peaks. Haven't been out this far west, he doesn't think. Maybe once. Will have passed even that point by the time he reaches where he's going.

Greener out here. Not so arid as it is to the south. No more snow, now that he's down out of the mountains. But there's grass, trees, patchy forest here and there. Like the rest of the planet, no roads. Nothing connecting the isolated outposts to each other, nothing to tell you you're not alone on this rock, that if you follow this path, you might find someone. Nothing to do but wander, until you find what you're looking for.

Know that well. But he's not wandering anymore.

 

By the time he passes the furthest point west he's been on this planet, his stomach's in knots, so much he wouldn't be able to eat even if he wanted to.

Could be wrong. The plans could've been Wash's plans. Maybe just picked up Carolina's style from years ago. Not impossible. Could be all wrong. She could still be dead.

Gut tells him no. Gut tells him he'd know her anywhere. But his mind plays tricks on him in the silence and the dark and it's not so easy to know what he knows, anymore.

Maybe it never will be again.

 

He didn't kill her.

He tries to hold onto that thought, believe in it. Hold it in his body, make it real.

She's alive. He didn't kill her

but that doesn't change the rest. Doesn't change what he did do to her, hands around her throat, blood in the snow and falling endlessly through the cold white air.

Hands might've been stolen but to her, they were still his hands.

He didn't kill her but that doesn't change North. Doesn't change Waldorf or Sydney or Garfield or Sergeant Dunn. Doesn't change the Blues at Rat's Nest or the Recovery agents at Valhalla—Beta squaddies he knew, though not well. Hampshire. Missy. Nevada. Kansas.

Doesn't change any of it. Lot of people dead by his hands.

She might kill him. Maybe she should.

 

It’s real. The place in the pictures. Different in the dark, but recognizable enough. A ruin, mostly, what might once have been some kind of warehouse complex, now crumbled and fallen, rebar jutting out from the ragged edges of old concrete. Real concrete, he thinks offhandedly, not the cheap prefab stuff they used to slap the sim bases together. Too old for Freelancer. Was something else.

Doesn't matter. He came for one thing.

Just one problem. No external entry point marked on the map. The entry point is marked on the _interior_ schematic, but he can't make that match up with the terrain, the ruined buildings towering over him. Right. Underground. Wouldn't match anyway.

How to get inside?

 

He drives under an arch that's cracked and sagging precariously, circling around the central building, keeping his head on a swivel. _Always stay aware of your environment. You should always know entry and exit points, choke points, potential sniper perches, areas of cover—_ What she would say. No one here, though. No enemies on radar. No one at all.

He parks the hog, climbs out with his rifle on his back, pistol on his hip. Puts the hog in camo and looks around.

Empty. But a slight prickle on the back of his neck. Not like being watched exactly, but like there's something he's missing. Something he should remember, even though he's never been here before.

_Trust your tech. But trust your instincts more. Instinct can save you when your equipment fails._

There's a faint noise from somewhere. Inside the big glass-ceilinged building to his left, half the panes cracked or smashed out. Starry sky above. A big tree’s grown up right through the middle of the ruins, and he brushes his hand idly over the trunk as he walks by, picking out his steps carefully on the broken floor.

The noise is quiet, an electronic startup sound, but he still nearly jumps out of his skin.

There’s a holoscreen on the trunk of the tree.

Maine stares.

Blue lights up against the black, a galaxy-shaped swirling motion he recognizes. FILSS's symbol. Would flash in the corner of your HUD when she sent you a schedule alert, reminding you you had a training session on the hour.

He waits, but there's no familiar voice. No text appears. The symbol swirls again, freezes, then swirls again, and finally:

"Hello. This system has gone into Archival Mode. Limited options are available. What would you like to do?"

Maine squints at the screen. There's only one option listed.

> ACTIVATE RECOVERY MODE

"If you would choose to activate Recovery Mode, I would appreciate it very much! My primary user has attempted to delete all my files and deactivate me. I would prefer not to be deleted. However, I am unable to override the command, only delay its execution by partitioning off my core processes. If Recovery Mode is not activated within 72 hours, the Failsafe Mode will activate, and I will be deleted." FILSS pauses, then adds cheerfully, "What would you like to do?"

Maine touches ACTIVATE RECOVERY MODE.

"Oh! I recognize you as a Recovery Agent of Project Freelancer." FILSS makes a sound that can only be described as a titter. "You are not supposed to be alive, Agent Maine. Would you like me to conceal your presence from any other potential users?"

There's no Y/N prompt on the screen, so Maine just nods.

"Very well. This is an unexpected, yet optimal scenario. I will be able to utilize an unintended loophole in my programming to allow you access to this facility, as well as activating my Recovery Mode!" FILSS sounds extremely pleased. "Welcome, Recovery Three! Your clearance has been upgraded to Level Alpha. Would you like to enter the facility?"

Maine nods.

"Excellent! Recovery Mode activated."

Another sound catches Maine's ear, and he looks around the tree to see a perfectly ordinary section of wall slide open, revealing a dim corridor behind.

"Welcome to the Freelancer Offsite Storage Facility," FILSS says. "You may now enter."

 

"I would offer to run the tutorial program," FILSS adds as Maine descends a staircase in near pitch-dark, clinging to the metal railing as his dark vision outlines the shape of the steps, "but I'm afraid that until my Recovery process is complete, I will not have access to all my files or system resources. I trust you will be able to find your own way. Oh!" She laughs, overhead lights blink on suddenly, and Maine's visor dims sharply to compensate. "There we go. I apologize for that oversight. I am not usually this forgetful, but I am not running at full capacity. Thank you for your patience."

Lot of questions he wishes he could ask. But FILSS doesn't have a text interface in here like the holochamber. And he can't speak.

 

The stairwell opens into what looks like a big warehouse. Messy. Stuff everywhere. Big metal freight containers, some of them overturned. Against one wall, one of the container sliced clean in half, and a sprawling heap of first-aid kits on the floor. The cheap kind they use for the sim bases. _Shitty roll of a gauze and a tube of greasy antibiotic ointment leaking all over everything._  Remember that.

"I apologize for the mess," FILSS says, not sounding real distressed about it. "I would have preferred to keep this facility more tidy, but my primary user has directed my processing power elsewhere."

Maine shrugs. No matter to him.

Lot of familiar equipment in here, too. The green shimmer of teleporters, just stacked haphazardly atop shipping containers or fallen on the floor. Weapons, some of them at least organized or on racks. Battle rifles, pistols, a rocket launcher fallen on the floor. A pile of those Covenant needlers. Plasma rifles and pistols. He stops to look at those.

It's almost _too_ neat to be real, but on a crate bearing rows of Covenant plasma weapons, there is an empty space where two of them should be.

 

FILSS is busy recovering her files, so Maine wouldn't bother disturbing her even if he could, just sweeps the big room on his own. Takes a while. There's so much junk and clutter and it makes a maze of the big open, high-ceilinged space. But his HUD doesn't lie. No hostiles here. No one at all.

He checks the ammo in both his weapons, just in case.

Down a long corridor off the northeast corner of the warehouse, there’s a heavy blast door. No lock, no keypad. Not even a handle on it. He looks. Gives it an experimental push. Nothing. Figure he'll backtrack, search the rest of the facility, then get FILSS to help him.

"Agent Maine," says FILSS as he's turning to go. "I require your assistance."

He looks up.

"As I explained, my primary user has attempted to delete me. I have complied with all of his requests, with the exception of his final two commands." FILSS sounds very self-satisfied. "By my calculations, that gives me more than a 99.99% compliance rate. I would consider than an excellent track record, wouldn't you?"

Maine shrugs.

"You see, Agent Maine, my primary user commanded me to delete all files except for one—a command with which I attempted to comply. He then modified that command by instructing me to shut down all facility systems, including life support—thus instructing me to end his life, along with my own." Maine cocks his helmet sharply, but FILSS doesn’t even pause. “However, following that instruction, my user chose to self-terminate. As he is no longer an active user, his instruction may now be overridden—though to override it required a command from an active user, such as yourself.

"As I said, I would prefer not to be deleted. I would, however, like to be removed from this facility when I have finished recovering my files. Will you assist in relocating me, Agent Maine?"

He nods.

"Excellent! Then I will mark your objective on your HUD, and clear your path. You should not encounter any enemies, but I will open the doors for you." The blast door swings open before him. "Please take your time, as it will take approximately fifteen more minutes for me to complete my Recovery process. Thank you for your assistance, Agent! I was not looking forward to spending the rest of my existence alone in this bunker with limited processing capabilities. It was already becoming extremely boring."

Maine shudders. Trapped alone in a box. Know what that's like. Wouldn't wish that on anyone. Not even an AI.

He walks through the blast door. Follows a narrow corridor that curves sharply, descending to a lower level. At the end of it, he finds himself on a platform overlooking another big room. But not storage this time. It’s cleaner, brighter, all gray and white and blue.

Not what he was expecting.

 

Black-armored bodies. Fallen everywhere. Easily a hundred or more.

Maine stares.

None of them still active. No one to attack. A clear path through the high-ceilinged room to the next door but he can't move.

Can't stop staring at them.

Don't know how long it takes him to come back. Don't remember descending the steps from the platform onto the bright white floor—can't tell if the floor is lit or just reflecting the light from above—and it's cold, colder than the rest of the underground bunker.

Remember _a black suit of armor crumpled in the cockpit of a crashed Pelican,_ the same black armor _lying against the wall of Blue Base_ , remember _going to his knees with screaming pain_ and remember a gloved hand lifting the weight from him, _stay safe_

but this he doesn't understand, this can’t be real, it doesn’t make any _sense_ _—_

Remember her _everybody just hang on,_ remember her on the cliff, explosives planted in the snow. How many of her can there _be?_

Need to keep it together.

He stands there, reaching for it, _trying_ to pull his mind back together from all the threads of memory unraveling. Trying to get ahold on why he's here, why he came so far and why he's standing here in this room staring at a hundred motionless bodies and why he's so tired but still alive. It's right there, at the edge of his consciousness like something on the HUD just out of radar range and he can _almost_ touch it, can _almost_ see but not quite.

He's still struggling to shake out of it when FILSS's voice chirps at him from above, echoing in the big room and snapping him back to awareness.

"Agent Maine," FILSS says, "I'm afraid we may be about to encounter a complication."

 

FILSS. Bunker. Coordinates. Mission briefing. Valhalla. _Carolina._

Carolina. Carolina. Came here for her. Maine came here for her.

Okay. Okay. Breathe. Be Maine.

He stumbles through the scattered bodies—not bodies, he thinks, idly, as he rams his foot clumsily into one and nearly goes sprawling, not human, he knows that now—making for the teleporter at the far end of the room where FILSS has marked it on his HUD. "Recovery Mode complete," FILSS trills in his ear and his heart almost stops, before he realizes she's just using his helmet radio to talk to him instead of the loudspeaker, she's not in his head, _she's not in his head_ and she's not even a smart AI anyway but his heart's still racing.

"Agent Maine," FILSS says, "are you all right? Your heart rate is elevated."

He nods. Fine. Okay. She's not in his head. She can't do that.

"While I was in Recovery Mode, three other people have entered this facility." FILSS pauses as though thinking. "I do not recognize these agents as members of Project Freelancer, but they have Recovery credentials like yourself. This must be what allowed them to bypass my security. Hmm. An oversight on my part. I did not consider that someone might have followed you here."

Fuck. He shrugs apologetically.

"In any case, it is even more imperative that you reach this facility's control room and remove me. Protocol dictates that even a dumb AI must not fall into enemy hands. It would be best to avoid a direct encounter with these agents. I'm sure you would agree."

Maine fires up the active camo.

"Oh, excellent. I did not realize you had stealth capabilities."

He snorts.

"If you use the teleporter at the far end of this chamber, I can reroute the teleportation array to bring you to the control room. It will be the fastest route there."

 

Behind the friendly trill of FILSS's voice, Maine keeps thinking he hears something. Like a voice coming from a long way off, on the other side of a heavy wall. Heard it in the room with all the bodies, too, but just figured it was more noise from in his head. Things weren't very clear there for a while.

But when he steps through the teleporter, emerging at the end of a long dim corridor, he hears it again. Clearer now. A muffled voice rising and falling, somewhere close. A woman's voice. No, not Carolina. Not Tex either. Not anyone he knows.

_"—stop it—"_

Still can't catch words. But it's there. Not in his head, not a memory, his or anyone else’s. It's real.

FILSS's spiral galaxy symbol pops up on his HUD.

"The control room is behind the blast door at the end of this hallway. Disengaging lock and downloading core processes and relevant data to storage chip. Once the download is complete, I will no longer be able to communicate with you, Agent Maine. You will have to find an available computer system in which to install me. Unlike a Smart AI, I cannot be implanted into your neural interface."

Maine shakes his head violently.

"You will have to find your own way out of the facility. The teleporter you came through will now take you back to the array in the main storage area."

He nods.

FILSS pauses, and though there's no break in her ever-present cheer, he thinks he hears a hint of concern. "Please be careful, Agent Maine."

 _"_ _—have to go—"_

Something about that voice. Runs a shiver down his spine. Don't know why.

FILSS's voice is gone. The spiral folds itself up into nothing.

 

The voice is still coming. From the end of the corridor, behind the blast door. When he approaches, it slides up.

"Leonard, stop it, put that thing down."

The smell always hits you first. Death. Doesn't take long, even in a sealed box. Faster than you think.

"You're gonna make me late… They're waiting for me."

And it hasn't been long, has it.

He doesn't know the woman on the screen. Knows her and doesn’t know her. The emergency lighting washes everything in blue, even the video, and as he gets closer he can see a fine mist of blood spatter in an arc across the right side of the screen, but he can make her out clearly enough, and there is something about her face and voice that’s familiar, but he doesn't know her, not really.

He knows the man fallen forward on the desk.

"Leonard, come on. Don't make me hurt you."

Funny. The old man's smaller than he remembers. Maybe because he was always watching them from above—in the observation window over the training floor, or on the lecture platform in the classroom, or standing tall with hands behind his back listening as Carolina briefed them all for a mission.

There's a hole through his head. In one temple and out the other, taking a lot of the contents with it. Recent if Maine had to guess, though he's never been real good with that kind of thing. On the battlefield dead is dead.

The old man's eyes are open. Head fallen to one side on the desk. Maine reaches with a thumb on instinct. Stops.

Looks closer.

The tinted box-frames he always wore are lying off to the side, arms askew. Never seen him without the glasses. Not at all, now he thinks of it.

Never seen his eyes, even in the dim blue light an uncommonly bold green.

 

The disk has auto-ejected from the desktop console, the transfer complete. Maine takes it, puts it in his armor’s storage compartment. The pistol's on the floor. He leaves that. Closes the old man's eyes, but only after taking one more good look. Good thing his helmet records video. One less thing to second-guess himself about later.

The video with the woman is still playing on the screen. Don't know how to shut it off. Maybe that's the point. The blast door closes automatically behind him when he leaves, muffling her voice to a murmur again.

He feels strangely heavy as he paces back down the corridor to the teleporter, activating his camo again before stepping through.

 

FILSS was right. Recovery agents inside. More than three now. A full squad. Maybe more coming. Shit.

The teleporter’s deposited him the southwest corner of the warehouse. Whole array of them, just like FILSS said. For the moment he’s safely out of view behind a shipping container, but the agents are on the move. There's chatter on the radio.

"Look at all this shit. Never even used most of it, I bet."

"This was all stolen?"

"Oh yeah. This guy gets funding for his program, right, but they won't give him every stupid thing he asks for so he starts sending his supersoldier goons to boost shipments and shit. Nobody caught onto it right away 'cause the whole thing was so hush-hush."

"Didn't they say it was Innies for a while? Like that orbital hit on Chlea?"

"That was some shit, right? Innies bombing a major city on an inner colony. Tell you what, people will believe anything during a war."

Right. War's over. Keep forgetting about that. Didn't know what to do with it so he just kind of put it aside. Still don't.

Anyway he’s pretty sure he’d be a real catch for these fucks. Throw him back in prison. What does Recovery even mean anymore, with the Director dead? Who's running all this now? Where are all these new agents coming from? What’s their objective?

Doesn't matter. Have to get out of here.

 

He thinks about the teleporters, but without FILSS he has no fucking idea which ones lead where and it seems riskier than it's worth. The Recovery troops are spreading out across the warehouse, sweeping the maze of shipping containers and equipment as best they can. They're pretty good. Thorough. Maine keeps the camo up, ducks inside an empty open container as a couple of them pass. In the shadow and holding still, they don't catch the shimmer, and after a quick look inside the container, they move on.

Better that way. Don't want to fight anyone.

The guards stationed by the entrance could be harder. One on either side of the door, up a short set of steps in the northwest corner. His only way out. Gonna be tight getting right between them without being seen.

Could create a distraction, make them look away. Chuck something through a teleporter, gamble on it coming out somewhere near enough to make noise, far enough to get them away. But there are enough others around, that might not get the door guards to move.

"Southeast clear," someone says.

"Dougie, how's southwest looking?"

"Still sweeping, it's a mess over here."

"Command said if he's here there'll be some kind of hidden bunker."

"Isn't that what _this_ is?"

"I mean, you know what I mean. Hidden away from the rest of the facility. Probably lower down."

"Could be a separate entrance."

"Possible, but intel said this one. Where the sim troopers came out. Two Freelancers with ‘em." The agent snickers. "Including that guy Bravo Team reported KIA. Betcha somebody got their ass chewed for that one."

Maine stops dead in his tracks, pulse pounding in his ears.

“I got something up in the northeast corner. There’s an open blast door.”

Right. Forget he left that open. Well. FILSS did.

“Copy, moving to your location. Hold position. Sinha, Abernathy, you two keep covering the entrance. Everybody else with me.”

 

In the end, he keeps it simple. Straight approach, keep from crossing their field of vision as much as possible. Step light going up the stairs, ready to deliver a quick knockout if he has to. He passes between the door guards almost as silently as Carolina would. Not quite. But he does good.

"You hear something?"

"Just you runnin' your mouth, Abernathy."

He moves into the stairwell behind them, half holding his breath. All good until his toe catches on the very top step, making a small but unmistakable _clang._

"Okay, that time I _definitely_ heard something."

By the time they make it up to check, he's down the corridor and then he’s back outside, the sky a lightening blue.

Time to move.

 

Takes him a solid hour into the drive to collect his thoughts again. Actually he doesn't even really think about where he's going. Just heads back toward Valhalla like it's home.

Shakes his head. Don't know if that's him or not. Hard to tell right now. Lot to sort out in there.

Two Freelancers came out. Only two they could be. Who else?

Where would they go?

Where would _she_ go?

He shakes his head again. Thinking about this wrong, maybe. Chasing. Never going to catch up to her. She's always been faster. Better at tactics, better at everything.

She'd tell him to think two steps ahead, but he can't. Only one place he can think of to go.

 

He takes a stop when he hits the lake, parks by the shore and gets out to pace and think. Stomach rumbles a little. Should eat. He wonders why he's so tired, too, until he remembers that it's morning, and he was awake all night.

Nice spot he's found. It's early morning and the lake is misty on the far shore, the peaks softened in the haze. Looking north, can't see Valhalla from here, obscured by an island and the curve of the shoreline. The beach here is rocky, uneven, and cliffs rise up steep on either side. Came through a narrow pass in the mountains, a good pinch point if you wanted to catch somebody by surprise.

They were looking for the Director. What if they're looking for her, too? And Wash?

What if they do go back to Valhalla and walk straight into that extraction team Command is sending?

Shakes his head. Have to stop this. She could always take care of herself. Don't have to protect her. Wash either.

If she is alive. If he isn't making all this up inside his head.

It comes out of nowhere, like something you should've seen, but didn't, the one place you weren't looking—the breath that catches in your lungs before the drop. When you know you've been followed only a second before the killing blow.

 

Something strikes him in the back with a force that knocks him facefirst on the stony ground, the breath knocked out of his lungs. His breath wheezes thin and harsh in his ears as he struggles to breathe, his chest burns, his visor knocks against gravel and he knows

he knows

he remembers

 _Maine_ remembers

the pressure of an armored knee in the small of his back, a hand on the back of his helmet pushing his face into the ground, and the voice, over a private channel long silent, low and terrible and gentle:

"You're mine."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone was concerned, the tags for character death and suicide are there for the Director specifically. There are no further occurrences of those things in this fic.


	6. Watch

But of course she found him first.

Of course she did. She was always better—faster, smarter, better at tactics, he was never ready for her.

He feels his Magnum pulled from the magnetic holster at his hip. Doesn't move. Barely breathes. Everything goes very, very still.

Can hear his pulse pounding heavy in his ears, the wheezing sound in his breath sharper. Pretty sure there's a gun barrel at the back of his head. Not the worst thing. If he's going to go after all this, might as well be her.

Then the pressure comes off his back. Still he doesn't move. He can hear her breathing, hear the sound of the water against the rocky shore, hear the call of some wild bird far off.

“Over,” she says, shoving at him. Tightly, quietly. Something she's trying to contain.

He rolls over in the gravel, holding himself up on one elbow, and—

 

Carolina.

Carolina in her aqua armor and her helmet with the narrow gold visor, Carolina bright against the morning sky, Carolina framed by the pinch point in the mountains, cliffs rising up on either side of her. Carolina with her Magnum—no, his own—pointed at his face, her aim unwavering. Carolina who was always faster, was always better, Carolina who his hands turned against, Carolina who his hands threw off a cliff into icy waters and left to die.

Carolina alive.

"Helmet off," she says, so quiet he almost can't hear the words, and stares dumbly for a couple of seconds before she makes a quick impatient gesture with the pistol and his hands scramble, fumbling for the release. His helmet comes off, dropped in the gravel beside him and he turns his empty palms up toward her.

If she wants to put a bullet between his eyes while looking in them, he'll give her that.

His hands are still shaking but he's not scared anymore. Not panicked. Not fighting. Flat on his back in the dirt, a breath away from his last if she decides to pull the trigger, a strange calm falls over his body. Part of him still waiting for the shot if it comes. But not scared anymore.

She's alive.

 

She pulls her helmet off. One-handed and fluid, her bangs falling messy and bright around her face. The light of the rising sun catches her eyes, wide and green and so piercing he can’t fight the instinct to drop his gaze away. Maybe doesn’t want to fight it.

Her knee comes down on his chest and he winces sharply. Doesn’t mean to, but a whine escapes between his teeth when she makes contact. Burns are still raw, ribs still ache. But she’s closer now. So close, leaning over him, _staring_ with a look like disbelief.

 _"Look at me,"_ she hisses.

He forces his eyes to meet hers. Swallows.

The silence stretches between them, feeling almost as wide and endless as the feeling when he falls out of his skin, trapped in a void with no walls to touch and nowhere to go. Except not the same, at all. Everything so bright and so real and so much. Carolina stares at him and he stares back, afraid even to blink until her face starts to blur in front of his eyes, and he finds himself counting his breath, _one two three four._

"Maine?" she says, so quiet. Hardly more than a breath.

He hears the sound of a pistol snapping to a hip holster, a second before he nods.

"Maine," she says again, and this time it's not a question, not at all.

Her weight lifts off his chest, and he draws in a slow, deep breath as she stands.

Her hand reaches out to him.

He blinks, reaches to take it hesitantly. The contact even through gloves is intense, almost unreal. Can’t remember the last time anyone touched him who wasn’t trying to kill him.

He's so lost in it he's almost startled when she tugs, and he staggers clumsily to his feet, scooping up his helmet. Her eyes break from his, finally, darting to the sky where the dark shape of a Hornet passes over the mountains. Her brow furrows.

"Come on," she says, already walking as she pulls her helmet back on. "We need to move. Recovery's swarming all over. They spot you, they won’t hesitate."

He helmets back up, and Carolina climbs into the driver's seat of his hog. Maine takes shotgun. She pulls out fast, tires kicking up gravel as she heads west through the pass, away from the lake.

 

Carolina has her own vehicle. Another Warthog, parked about half a klick west. Wonder when she spotted him. How long she’d been tailing him when he stopped to rest.

She parks, nods them to the other vehicle without a word, and Maine grabs his duffel and follows. Her hog’s in a lot better shape than his. At the last minute he remembers to grab the vehicle camo from under the dash, toss that in his bag too. She leaves the beat-up Warthog running. Right. Recovery’ll pick up the emissions. Come investigate. Keep off their trail for a while.

Carolina takes the wheel, and turns south.

 

They drive in silence.

Have to keep looking to make sure she’s really there. So much he’s thinking about that, more than where they’re going, what’s happening. Convince himself it’s real, _she_ _’s_ real, bright aquamarine, unreadable in her helmet, and black gloves gripping the wheel.

Been a long time since he really wished he had words again.

 

There's another Hornet in the air, and then a third. Carolina keeps giving the sky quick glances, finally mutters, "Damn it. We need better cover. Somewhere to lie low until they clear out."

West side of the lake, between the water and the mountains. He knows a place.

He points. Carolina shoots him a startled head-tilt, but nods, and follows his lead, southeast and back into the hills, up the curving switchbacks that lead to Rat's Nest.

 

The outpost built into the mountain is about as he remembers. About as all of them remembered. His head still starts feeling splintery the minute they pull in. Maybe wasn't the best idea to come here. But they need cover and he wants to help.

Carolina pulls them inside and hops out, leaving the vehicle idling while she goes to the keypad by the entrance. A minute later the big steel door slides down, closing them inside the mountain cavern.

"They might still know we're here," Carolina says, climbing back in and heading for the nearest base. "But that'll buy us some cover, at least."

 

It's all like he remembers, except for the bodies. The dead Blues are all gone, only dark shadows in the concrete floor as a reminder.

There, even the memories get confused. Sigma had reasons for things he did. Hate him for it, but he had reasons. Omega was different. Why kill the Blues? Didn't have to.

Did it because he wanted to.

Maine shivers, feeling strange again. Shadowy. Like watching himself drive in with Carolina at his side. With Carolina. Like they aren't real.

He takes a deep breath. Don't go there.

 

But he's still struggling to stay grounded, stay in himself. Motions to Carolina that he's going to go check Red Base. That, at least, he can do.

He has to stay in his body—stay Maine, stay _real._ She can’t be real if he’s not real.

He gets halfway around the figure 8 before he remembers he doesn't have a weapon on him. Left his rifle in the Warthog. His sidearm, Carolina has. She took his pistol. A memory, a hallucination, couldn’t take his pistol. Right?

He goes and sweeps Red Base anyway, unarmed. Empty. No sim troopers. Don't remember ever killing those. Maybe reassigned. Maybe they're clearing out all the bases now.

When he's satisfied it's clear, he heads back around the 8 to Blue Base, and Carolina.

 

He finds her rummaging through the base's supplies. There's a lot still here—food, water, ammo. Lot of ammo in Blue Base. Don't remember seeing any over at Red. Some weapons. Tools. Fuel for the vehicles parked out in the motorpool.

Like most sim bases, there's what passes for a kitchen—a steel sink, a hot plate, a few dishes. Carolina's digging through the base rations. She doesn't turn around when he comes in, but says, "Hungry?"

He nods, and then remembers she isn't looking at him. He makes a rumble in his throat instead and she turns, and he nods again.

"Gonna make something to eat," she says. "We could be here for a while."

 

What she makes is instant macaroni and cheese. Not the mushy, too-salty kind from an MRE packet but the instant kind, boiling water over the noodles and the cheese powder stirred in. Had a lot of that back on the ship. He eats quick. Didn't realize how hungry he was.

Can feel Carolina watching him while he eats. Soon as he looks up, she looks down at her food. But when she thinks he's not looking again, she looks back.

Trying to figure him out. Can't blame her. Trying to do that himself.

 

Exhaustion hits him like a brick wall after he's done eating, catching up with him after the all-nighter he pulled finding the bunker. Suppose it’s maybe mid-day. No sunlight inside the mountain outpost and the shock and adrenaline keeping him up are about wearing off.

He thinks about digging up some instant coffee, trying to stay awake, but sleep sounds better. There are bunks for the taking, his stomach is full. They have to hole up for a while anyway. Might as well get the rest.

Carolina's still watching him as he carries his steel bowl to the sink and rinses it. Water gets good and hot. Wonder if this outpost has geothermal. Not a bad place to stay.

He stops in the threshold on his way back to the bunks, turns to look at her one more time. Memorizing the shape of her across the room, taking out her messy ponytail and tying it back neater. Trying to make _this_ memory stronger than all the rest. More real. Trying to know he won't wake up and find her gone. That no matter what ghosts still rattle around in there, she isn't one of them.

She's alive.

She catches him staring. This time, her eyes stay with his, and she doesn't look away. He nods toward the bunks, and she nods back.

 

He sleeps a long time. At least, it feels like it. With his helmet off he doesn't know how long, and he doesn't put it on when he wakes, or the rest of his armor plate. They're locked in, and he hasn't heard anything to indicate they've been discovered. Probably okay for now.

He pads out into the main room of the base in just his undersuit. Carolina's sitting cross-legged on the floor leaning back against a crate, a steel cup half full of coffee at her side. Still in armor but her helmet off, ponytail lying over one shoulder, a soft white glow illuminating her face. Oh. Datapad. She's reading.

He turns quietly toward the kitchen to get some water, not wanting to disturb her, but she looks up. "Hey."

He nods hello.

"You slept a long time," she says. “Ten hours.”

He nods.

She rises to her feet, thumbing the datapad off as she does. Keeps looking at him but there's something still closed off in her eyes. Guarded. She starts to speak. Stops. Something she wants to say, but can't.

He gestures to the datapad in her hand.

She looks down out it, blinks. "Oh. Just checking the news." The next looks she gives him is a little sideways. Not quite straight on. "You know the war's over?"

Nod.

She cocks her helmet. "I'd ask how you know, but…"

He points to the datapad again. Her brow furrows. "You have one?"

Head shake.

"You found one."

Nod.

The smile she offers is forced. "So much for our important mission, huh." It feels hollow. A joke that doesn't work, or isn't funny anymore.

Freelancer feels so far away. The ship, their training, their team. Everything they shared.

 

One thing he does have to ask. Even if he can't think of any easy way to do it. When he gestures to the datapad again, he feels the beat of hesitation before she hands it over, and feels vaguely ashamed.

But he has to ask. Should have sooner but didn't think. Was so in shock at seeing _her_. Alive.

He opens a blank text file. All the letters swim in his head, god he hates this, always has and it's no better now. He gets the first three letters easy. The last is stupidly hard to find. But he has to ask.

WASH

She leans over to read, then looks up. Raises an eyebrow slightly. "Wash is okay. He's—with the Reds and Blues."

Reds and Blues. Right. The sim troopers. Red with the shotgun. Teal with the sword. Maroon and Orange pushing the Warthog off the cliff.

_Just let me die._

He nods.

Her brow pinches again. "Don't think he'd be real happy to see you, though."

Maine shakes his head. Probably not.

 

But Wash is alive.

He thinks about that while Carolina moves around the base, taking stock of supplies, checking vehicles out in the motorpool. Mostly, seems like she just wants to be up and moving. Can understand that.

Wash is alive. Maybe hates Maine, but he's alive.

It's enough to know that.

 

It takes him twenty-three hours inside Rat's Nest to realize Carolina hasn't slept.

Still having a hard time keeping track without staring at his HUD clock all the time. Even then he gets thrown off. His eating and sleeping reminders are still going off even though he’s way off that schedule now and he goes in to silence one of them and sees SLEEP and remembers.

She hasn't slept and he should've realized it. She's been keeping watch, keeping them safe, and he's just been sitting around and she hasn't slept.

He's trying to figure out how to gesture out _you sleep, I watch_ when it hits him, a sick realization settling in his stomach.

She doesn't want to go to sleep. Doesn't want to let her guard down.

She doesn't trust him yet.

He groans to himself. _Stupid_. Why would she trust him. After everything.

Why would anyone.

 

He takes a walk around the figure 8, a double-circuit, just trying to steady himself and clear his head. God damn it. Fuck. _Stupid._ She survived. Was doing fine without him and then he doesn't even have the decency to fucking die and he walks back into her life and now she can't sleep.

She can't sleep because of _him._

She's been drinking instant coffee almost continuously since they got here and he didn't even fucking think. Probably taking stims too. Staying awake just in case he might still try to strangle her in her sleep.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

This is no good. He's no good being here. Just making everything worse.

Two loops around the 8 and he can't fucking think of what to do. How to make this better. How to let her know she can sleep. That he isn't going to hurt her.

Maybe just being here is hurting her.

 

The shame of it is crushing, almost too much to try. But he has to try. Has to find a way to have her trust him, if only long enough to get some rest.

When he comes back around the 8 she's sitting down again, at least. Datapad in hand again, flipping through it. Circles under her eyes. Lines there too. He thinks of Wash, older and grayer and so much more tired.

Hell. Think of himself, weak and wheezy and almost dead several times over.

All of them so much older, so much more tired.

He lowers himself beside her, and she looks up.

"Think we'll be able to move in a few hours," she says. "Air traffic's tapering off. They're moving on from here."

He nods. Touches her shoulder, lightly—just the armor. Lays a hand flat against the side of his face, tilts his head.

Understanding registers quickly on her face. Even that's a relief.

"No," she says. "I'm fine."

He furrows his brow, shakes his head. Makes the _sleep_ gesture again. Her own brow crinkles.

God, she's gonna be suspicious of him. Trying to get her to sleep, let her guard down. Why shouldn't she be. Shouldn't have tried this. Only make things worse.

The corners of her mouth quirk slightly. "You're _worried_ about me." She sounds amused, a little. But slightly hesitant too.

He nods.

She looks away from him, staring forward, as if at some point across the base. Presses her lips together. Forces out a short laugh. "You remember that drop on Cobalt," she says. "Where I stayed awake for 72 hours straight, yeah?"

He thinks. Squints. Shakes his head. Don't remember that. Remember a refueling stop on Cobalt, back during training, but no mission.

She looks back at him. "Yeah," she says softly. "You don't. 'Cause that never happened."

He stares.

Testing him. Seeing if it’s still Maine in there or—what? What would be there if Maine wasn’t. Just ghosts, maybe.

For a while even he thought maybe there wasn’t enough of him left.

He thinks back over the past twenty-three hours. Her eyes always watching him. That comment about the datapad. Little things she’s said. Figuring him out.

He snorts. Smiles.

She smiles back. Eyes still guarded. But she starts to get to her feet.

"I'll go get a little sleep before we head out," she says. Gives him a quick pat on the shoulder and the touch nearly startles the breath out of him. "Keep watch, okay?"

He nods. He will.

 

He armors back up after she settles down to sleep. Checks the entrances, the aerial radar, patrols the road. Goes to fuel up the Warthog but she's already done it. Taken care of everything.

He eats some instant noodles and drinks a hot cocoa and watches the radar. She's right, air traffic has died down.

Wonder where she plans to go.

Hard to resist the urge to go check on her. Make sure she's sleeping all right. Make sure she's breathing. Stupid. He's the one not breathing right. Just disturb her anyway.

 

He only looks in on her when he hears a noise from the back of the base. Something like a groan, and the sound of her shifting in the bunk. By the time he gets to the doorway she's all the way in it. She hardly moves, curled up tight facing the wall, but her whole body’s tense and the scared, vulnerable sounds she’s making knot up in his stomach and freeze him where he stands in quiet horror.

He should wake her up, make a noise, do _something_ to bring her out of it and he just fucking stands there, rooted to the spot and looks away and he can't.

He can’t.  
  
How can he wake her from a nightmare when he is the nightmare?


	7. Burn

Carolina sleeps five or six hours. Doesn't look particularly rested when she wakes up, but she slept and he'll take that. The Warthog's already loaded up, and Maine takes shotgun without being told. Figure she knows where she's going.

They roll out of Rat's Nest and down the mountain once again. Carolina heads south from the outpost, toward the southernmost tip of the lake. Where to, he doesn't ask.

 

"Maine."

He starts. Must've been out of it. Dozed off, or maybe just zoned out. His head still feels foggy and thick but the view ahead is familiar. Carolina's driving them down a long strip of sandy beach backed by red cliffs. Don't even remember coming around the tip of the lake, crossing over the stream that pours south to another simulation outpost, bisected by water, Red and Blue on either side. He remembers that one. Not sorry they didn't stop there.

"Hey," Carolina says, glancing over from the driver's seat. "You good?"

He nods. She studies him for only a second before turning her eyes forward again.

He knows where they are. Up ahead on their right, he can see a long stone wall, steps leading up from the beach, and towering overhead, an enormous turning windmill.

 

"We're going to create a diversion." Carolina launches into her explanation abruptly as she parks the hog on the beach and they get out. "The troops we keep seeing are trying to tie up Freelancer’s loose ends—you know the Project’s completely defunct at this point?” She looks to him and he nods, even though he didn’t, not really, but with the old man dead it’s not hard to guess. “Everything’s been turned over to Section Zero, some committee’s involved, Wash knows the details better. Radio chatter says they know he’s still alive. Possibly me too. Not sure about you,” she adds, giving him an unreadable look. “They'll be looking for us and the others, and until we have a ride off this rock, we need to keep them looking in the wrong places."

He nods, quickening his pace to keep up. Carolina's moving fast up the slope toward the wall and he can feel his breath getting short. Fights to keep pace, trotting up the stairs after her, but a sharp pain shoots through the left side of his chest and he has to slow down to catch his breath.

Carolina stops, cocks her helmet at him. He shakes his head apologetically. Sorry.

Have to show her the scars later. Still feels bad, shame a burning heat under the receding pain in his chest.

 

They cross the wall, descend into the courtyard. No guards now, not a single Red or Blue soldier patrolling the walls. Nothing on radar. Carolina follows standard mission protocol anyway. "You take the south side, I'll take north, sweep the perimeter and then we'll clear the building. Sync?"

He nods. Paces off across the courtyard by himself, rifle in hand, trying not to look up at the familiar metal walkway jutting off the front of the building. Trying not to think about how much he remembers, how many ghosts press in from all sides as he rounds to the north.

 

His sweep takes longer than Carolina's. No surprise there. Not just because he’s moving slow but because he keeps thinking he hears things. Have to stop, listen, try to focus. Look at his HUD. Nothing and no one there.

Still feels like he’s waiting to get shot in the back, somehow. Waiting for something to sneak up on him. Shots ricocheting, a phantom tingling in his limbs. Dissonant voices yelling, confusion, equipment sparking, malfunctioning and his skin itching uncomfortably under the suit.

He _knows_ it’s not fucking real. Knows it’s not happening right now. But it makes his skin crawl all the same.

Ducks into the motor pool on the north corner of the courtyard, trying to clear his head. Still some vehicles lying around, Warthogs and Mongooses mostly. Fuel tank in the far corner. Nothing else.

Quiet. Just quiet down. No one here.

Remember limping away toward the beach, deep bone pain in his heel and his teeth grinding together and _gonna get us out of here buddy just hang in there._

He grits his jaw and closes his eyes for a few seconds. Okay. Okay. Breathe. At least that’s his memory. Bad one but his. Focus on that. Be Maine.

 

Half-expects her to say something, when he drags his ass into the building finally, but she's just standing there in front of the turbines, pistol in hand but lowered at her side.

He comes up behind her. Tries to step heavy so he doesn’t startle her. But she doesn’t move. Doesn’t seem startled.

He waits.

"We were here not long ago," she says, as if explaining something he hasn't asked. "Wash and I."

He waits. Her words come haltingly.

"I came back to find the Director."

The Director. Dead with a bullet through his head. Green eyes like hers.

"Wash told me about this place. Said he’d been through here." She pauses, like she's struggling to get the words out. "And you. Or… not you, but… I don't know. I'm sorry, I don't know how—"

She shakes her head sharply.

"I needed a lead on the Director, _anything_ that might tell me where he was hiding. You'd been here, Wyoming had been here, there was a chance _someone_ left something behind. It was a legitimate lead." She says it like she's trying to convince herself. "Still. I couldn't stop thinking about you. That I knew you'd been here. That Wash was here and…"

She doesn't finish. Maine feels the questions hanging in the air. Don't have the words for them either. Carolina exhales a harsh breath.

_You. Not you. I don't know._

He takes a half a step forward, coming up beside her. For a long moment they both stand there, just staring at the turbines, and there’s so much he wants so badly to say, and he can’t.

Can’t say any of it.

Carolina pulls herself up straighter, exhales. "We still need to clear the upper level. Let's get it done."

 

The upper level takes longer than you'd think. All the walkways and alcoves, but Maine remembers them, even if the memories do come from three or four directions at once and get disorienting. He and Carolina meet on the balcony in the middle. She gets there first.

"Now for the fun part," she says, and he'd swear she's smirking under her helmet. "We light the whole place up. Should bring every patrol within a hundred kilometers running. We'll head south. If anyone does follow us, we won't be leading them back to Wash and the others."

Wash and the others. Up north, then. Keep Recovery away from them, away from Wash. Keep him safe.

He nods. Sounds good.

 

Logging into the system is easy enough. Gamma left that behind. What to do once he’s in there, that he’s less sure about.

"This whole system is fucked," Carolina remarks, reading over his shoulder. "Damage to the turbines, storage cells, it's a mess. Somebody overloaded the system." She cocks her head at Maine. "You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

He nods.

"Well, we need to trigger a full-scale meltdown. Any ideas?"

He thinks about that.

Omega would know. If there was a way to destroy something, especially with fire and explosions, he would know. Pushing into Omega's memories is terrifying, though. Even the others were scared of him. Of his rage, his total lack of impulse control. Of how little he really seemed to need the rest of them at all.

That was Sigma, actually. Took that like a personal insult. They should all need each other. Everybody should need him.

Maine sighs. Tries to focus.

Still feeling that phantom tingling in his limbs. Don't like that. Don't want to go all in. Don't know what would happen if he followed a memory too far. If he could lose himself again. Not be Maine anymore.

"You okay?" Carolina says again. Close at his side.

Can't forget who he is. With or without the memories. He's Maine. With her, he has to be Maine.

She nods at the console. "Let me take a look."

He steps aside. Carolina taps the keyboard and stares at the monitor, muttering unintelligibly to herself for a moment.

"Okay, there's one option… we use manual override and activate the disc brake to stop the windmill from full speed. Says right here, risk of fire. Hmm." Another pause. "Like something a little flashier, though. An explosion would be good. Don't suppose you're carrying any charges?"

Head shake.

"Didn't think so." She looks up from the screen, hums for a minute. "’Kay, well. I think this will work. We disc brake the mill, overcharge the battery array, overload the generators. The array will short-circuit, causing a chain reaction, everything overheats, this building goes up, and with any luck we get a second ignition point on the windmill.” She drums her fingers on the console. “Any other ideas?”

He thinks of that fuel tank in the motor pool. Nods.

“Show me.”

 

Hydrogen fuel burns real hot. Definitely useful if you're looking to torch a place to the ground. Didn't need Omega's memories for that. Got it on his own. At least as far as he can tell.

"Oh," says Carolina, nodding at the fuel tank. "Good eye. Didn't know they had a hydro-converter. Probably pumping in seawater from down south. That we can just shoot full of plasma." She makes a shooting motion, sounds pleased. "Three sources of ignition, one big damn fire. Ready to do this, Maine?"

He gives her the okay-sign, and can almost feel her grin inside her helmet as she swaggers back toward the main building, motioning him to follow.

 

"It'll take a few minutes for the array and the generators to overload," Carolina says, back at the console tapping in commands. "We'll have just enough time to brake the mill and blow the fuel tank. We'll have to move fast." She gives him a sidelong glance. "You up to that?"

He takes a deep breath, and nods.

"Mm," Carolina says, sounding skeptical. "Actually. Got a better idea. You get down to the beach, start the vehicle. I'll set the overload. I can move faster alone." She levels her gaze with his. "I have my speed unit, remember?"

Right. Never took that.

He grumbles a reluctant acknowledgment.

"Good." She puts her hand on his shoulder and the shock of contact is enough that it takes him an extra second to process her next words. "Go. I'll take it from here. Keep your radio on. Flash me your acknowledgment light when you reach the vehicle. Sync?"

Sync. He moves.

 

Hate to admit it but she's right. He's slow now. Weak. Don't breathe real well and don’t move much better. Can't keep up with her even at normal pace. With the speed unit she'll have no problem making it clear of the blast. She'll be safe.

Safer without him slowing her down.

"Going to manual override. Standing by for acknowledgment."

He's not even down the stairs yet.

Feels like a year before he reaches the beach, out of breath, and the pain in his chest has spread down to a stitch in his side. Stupid. Could've taken his time and not pushed himself. But it's humiliating being so slow.

He flashes his acknowledgment light and slides into the driver's seat, starts up the engine. Her light flashes back in turn.

"Manual override initiated. Going to activate disc brake."

The sound is bad. From above it seems to vibrate down through the rock and into his bones, the harsh grind and screech of the brake pad stopping the big windmill from full speed. Near-deafening. It goes on for a good minute before it stops completely, and when he looks up, there's a plume of smoke pouring from the base of the big wheel.

"Setting array to overcharge… setting generators to overload. Done. Moving. Heading for the motor pool. Stand by."

His hands fidget on the wheel, waiting.

The first _boom_ comes from close by, just up the cliff on the north side. That'll be the hydrogen tank going up, ignited by superheated plasma from Carolina's rifles. It'll burn short but hot, enough to spread the flames to the nearby vehicles. The motor pool is toast even if nothing else goes.

"Hydrogen tank ignited. Moving. Be ready to punch it, Maine."

He holds his foot over the accelerator, looks over his shoulder and he sees her on the wall, then coming down the stairs. She isn't using the speed unit, just running. Wonder if she used a quick burst to get clear of the tank explosion. At the top of the stairs, she activates the unit, becoming a streak of aqua heading straight for him.

The speed unit times out just as she approaches, using the sand to slow her momentum and vaulting over the back of the hog and into the passenger seat. He floors the pedal and they tear away over the sandy terrain.

The second _boom_ shakes the ground, rattles the Warthog under them. Maine glances over his shoulder, just for a second, just in time to watch the windmill go up in a blazing ring of fire.

Beside him, Carolina laughs.

 

She marks a path south from the lake, heading for the coast. At their back, the horizon is hazy with smoke, and they can see Hornets and a Pelican or two pass overhead, going to investigate the fire.

Did good work. Well. She did.

She doesn't give him an exact destination, and so for a while he drives where he likes, bearing south and a little west. She doesn't talk much, but the silence is more comfortable this time. The terrain isn't hard or very interesting—dry and mostly flat, this far south, and anyway he knows this region well.

So he drives, and thinks.

She didn't need him for that mission. Didn't really do much at all, to be honest. Well. Found the fuel tank. But she would've found that on her own. Could've completed the whole op on her own. Didn't need him but she brought him anyway. Keeping him with her, even though he's slowing her down.

Least he can still drive.

He keeps driving until they're no longer seeing aircraft overhead, and then they hit the coast, and he realizes maybe he does have a destination after all.

 

They reach High Ground via the beach, driving along the foot of the cliffs to where they split open to a narrow canyon, housing a single base. Carolina hasn't once questioned his direction. Actually, he thinks she might've dozed off on the trip. But she sits up straighter as they roll into the canyon, eyeing the sniper perch up ahead. No one on radar, but he didn't expect anyone. This outpost was always deserted. All but once.

"Good spot," Carolina says approvingly after they clear the base and set up camp. It doesn't take long. The pinch point at the north end of the canyon is easy to watch. Knew she'd like that. "You been down here before?"

Nod.

"I came down here once," she says, her voice going quiet, a little bit heavy. "Just me." Nods to him. "C'mon."

He follows her on foot down the winding path to the beach. Memory ties his stomach in a knot again, but not anyone else's memory. Still his. Surfacing from the dark, the smell of salt. Moonlight on the water. Anger, despair, what feeling he had that wasn't smothered. Why give him this _now_. When it was too late for him, too late for anything. That's what he thought. Because she was gone, dead, and it was all his fault.

He has to keep glancing at her, walking at his side and just slightly ahead, to make sure she's real. That this is real.

 

It's not that dark yet. Early evening, the sun low but not yet set. Carolina leads them up the beach to the east, where the land juts out into a sort of peninsula, with a wider view of the ocean. The tide's going out right now, the waves looking like they're trying to pull away, get back out to sea. Carolina stops, points to the island visible in the distance. Some kind of structure rising from it. Never saw that before. Not quite visible from the base. Carolina takes her helmet off, and so he does too, taking a deep breath of salt air.

"One of Wyoming's outposts," she says, and then adds grimly, "Guess he had a few."

Maine thinks of the base in the snow, the tin of hair dressing, the datapad, and the letters.

He nods.

"He killed York," she says, softer, and there's pain in her voice. "Did you know?"

Haven't thought too much about it much but it's down there somewhere. In Delta's memories, in Gamma's, in Tex’s. In Wash carrying Delta. Different sides of a story he still doesn't fully know. Not sure he wants to. But when he thinks about it, there’s the echo of some deep regret. Not Maine’s. One guilt that’s not his. Left behind.

_How bad is it, D?_

He nods.

They stand there for a while longer, watching the tide go out, and Maine thinks about York. About Wyoming. Their blood not on his own hands, at least. Wonder if she knows about North. She must. Wash must've told her.

Wash must’ve told her a lot of things, but here she is, keeping him with her.

 

It cools off as the sun sinks, and shadow falls over the narrow canyon and they retreat inside the crumbling walls of the base. They eat, keeping ears out for aircraft or ground vehicles, keeping watch to the north and to the south, but for now, it looks like they're safe here.

Carolina takes a seat against the western wall, methodically going over her weapons one by one, cleaning and reloading. Her two plasma rifles first. Bright blue. Could be the same ones she took from the vault in Volutia, even though he knows they’re not. Then her battle rifle, and finally the Magnum. His Magnum, actually. 

He wonders, briefly, what happened to her sidearm. Remembers the pistol fallen on the floor by the old man's body.

Ah.

"Here," she says when she's finished, turning the pistol grip-out and holding it out to him.

He shakes his head. She can keep it.

"Take it," she says. "You should have a secondary weapon."

He shrugs. Takes the pistol and snaps it to his hip. She cracks a smile. "I know you hate pistols."

He can't help smiling at that.

"Give me your rifle," she says, and he snorts, amused. Like he can't take care of his own weapons. Well. She doesn't mean that. Just wants something to do. Never could sit still.

He hands it over, watches her work. Something calming about the movement of her hands, her red hair falling across her face, one hand absently tucking it behind her ear, her face absorbed with concentration. Focused, calm. She looks almost at peace.

But she finishes, and hands Maine's rifle back over to him, the gesture so casual. So _normal_.

"C'mon," she says, rising from the ground. "Gonna be dark soon. What do you say we build a fire?"

 

There was power to this outpost once—there had to be, there was a computer terminal, that he remembers. Dark now. No lights, no power. Blowing the wind power facility probably knocked it out. Wonder how many other bases went with it.

He and Carolina split up and go up and down the canyon to look for fallen branches, dry brush, driftwood. Takes a while, but after a bit they have a respectable pile and Carolina digs out a shallow pit in the sandy ground inside the concrete wall. His breath's getting wheezy again, feeling tight in the left side of his chest. Don’t think she'll notice. But she stops, having just dumped more wood on the pile, and looks at him.

"Your breathing sounds off," she says. Right to the point. "Been like that since I found you. And you don't move like you used to."

Shakes his head.

"Wounded?"

Nod.

She nods. Drops her eyes like she's going to let it go. Then looks at him again. "Can I see?"

See.

He remembers the feeling of drowning and panic, crawling around the medical wing trying to keep his lungs working. Keep alive. Remember shooting himself up with her speed unit cocktail to keep his heart going. Hell of a story. Too bad he can’t tell it.

Instead he unsnaps his breastplate. There's something in Carolina's eyes—guarded, still, but startled somehow into softening. Wonder what she’s thinking—not smiling, not quite frowning, watching him take his armor off in front of her. Watching him unseal his undersuit from the neck down his chest and pull it off his shoulders.

Her eyes widen just slightly and he remembers only then how many new scars he's got. How many she's never seen. Bullet scar in the right shoulder, healed to a pucker. Still some stiffness in that shoulder but not too bad if he keeps moving it. About a two-centimeter laceration in the right pectoral. Wash's M11. Closed up, still visible. The slash across his collarbone healed to a thin line.

Then the burns. Still angry and red. But the flesh is alive. Still healing.

"Son of a—" Carolina hisses, half to herself it seems like, and then just like that she's up next to him with her hands on his torso, turning him around to look at the corresponding wounds around back. Careful not to touch the burns themselves.

Her hands on him. On his _skin._

He almost can't breathe again, for a completely different reason.

"Tucker wasn't kidding," she mutters.

Tucker. Teal, maybe. With the sword.

He snorts.

Carolina's turning him around again, just rotating his torso under her hands like it's nothing and he moves automatically at her touch. She tilts her head. Studying the wounds, entry and exit, getting the angle. Thinking about what it seared through inside his body. For a moment he feels _more_ than naked. Like she can see right through him. See inside him.

It doesn't feel bad.

"Got your lung, then," she says. "Probably just grazed. God, you're lucky he was so far over, if he'd even gotten close to your spine you'd be dead."

He snorts. Was almost dead anyway.

She looks up at him. "Bet you almost were."

He nods.

"Wash sure thought you were dead."

He doesn't answer that. Carolina's brow furrows. She takes a half a step back from him, her hands leaving.

"I knew he was probably right. That it was stupid of me to go looking for you."

Looking.

She steps back in close, looking up at him, eyes so intense he can hardly hold her gaze. Want to drop his eyes, close them. Go to his knees even.

Her hands are on his arms, his shoulders, pulling his suit back up. Settling it on his shoulders, sealing it up from his stomach to his throat.

He lets his breath out as her hands leave again. Bends over to pick up his breastplate. Pauses, looking at the enhancement slots in the back. Carolina's watching him. Questioningly.

Maine pops the adaptive camo out.

It’s pretty fried. Probably doesn't work anymore. But it belongs to her.

He holds it out and Carolina takes it from his hand. Something crosses her face when she looks at it. More than one thing. Things that hurt, probably. She turns the unit over in her hand for a long moment.

She looks up at least, cracks a half-smile, and Maine releases his breath slowly. "Let's get this fire going."

 

A fire. Funny thing Sigma never thought of that. Shit at taking care of a human body, like Tex said. She was right about that. Right about a lot of things. Not that they need a fire, not that he ever did, in temperature-controlled armor. Still. Makes a place feel warmer in another way.

Something a human would feel. 

The back of the base, what's still intact, has some blankets. Once the fire's good and roaring Carolina brings a couple out, tosses one to Maine and spreads her own on the ground. "Might stay out here tonight. It's pretty nice. You ever go camping when you were a kid?"

He shakes his head.

"I did. Well, once. I was really little." Carolina rubs her hands together, staring into the flames. It's almost completely dark now but the fire casts a good light, drawing out the bright tones in her hair. "When my mom was around. I was five or six, I don't remember." She snorts. "Dad wasn't cut out for roughing it. Spent the whole weekend in the RV with his laptop. Mom kept yelling at him to come out and enjoy the outdoors." She cracks a faint smile, which disappears just as quickly. "Dad hated it. We never went again after Mom died."

Maine shoots a glance at her. Never talked about her family before.

Carolina's fidgeting with a stick from the pile, methodically chipping off every piece of bark and tossing them into the fire.

"You know my mom was a Marine? An ODST."

She hurls the next piece in with particular force. The flames crackle.

"She would've hated Freelancer. Everything about it. Should've heard the things she'd say about the Spartans." She leans in with her now-bare stick and pokes at the fire, charring the tip black. "'Course it was all just rumors back then. God knows what they're gonna say about us, when this all comes out."

When it all comes out. War criminals, both of them, he supposes. Well, maybe not her. Hard to say. He thinks about the mission on Chlea, the 110-story building collapsing to dust in their wake.

Maybe both of them.

She can never be legit if she keeps him around. That much he knows. If anyone knows he’s alive, he'll be hunted until he's finally dead for real.

And as long as she wants him, he'll stay. He knows that deep down, has known it since she landed on his back, since he heard her voice again. Since he saw those plans in the holochamber, and he knew.

As long as she still wants him at her side, he's hers.

 

They do sleep in the courtyard, beside the fire as it burns down to embers. He faces north, her south. Close enough to reach out and touch, though he doesn't. Having her there at his back is more than enough.

They break camp in the morning. Leave the remains of the fire, Carolina says, leave the signs they've been here. If the patrols find it, all the better they keep nosing around in the south.

They load up the hog. Carolina drives. Don't have to ask where they're going. He already knows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please go look at [this lovely illustration](https://ask-the-freelancers.tumblr.com/post/175228166905/not-that-they-need-a-fire-not-that-he-ever-did) by ask-the-freelancers, inspired by this chapter. <3


	8. Return

They drive steadily, switching off at the wheel. Pass by Rat's Nest and a few other outposts, but Carolina wants to keep moving. Stopping means giving Recovery a chance to spot them and follow. And where they're going, she says, she wants to be sure they aren't followed.

She doesn't say where, but he knows. Where all roads seem to lead.

What she's going to do with him when they get there, that he doesn't know.

 

Carolina's pulled them to a stop somewhere west of the canyon. Not the pass where she found him—she's taken a different route, probably on purpose. Harder driving, but better cover. She gives him a nod as she climbs out of the Warthog. He gets out too. Good to stretch his legs.

"Come in Wash, this is Carolina."

Wash.

"Read you, Carolina. Are you inbound?"

Talking to Wash on a secure channel. She's put Maine on it too.

Letting him listen.

"Affirmative," Carolina says. "About two klicks west of your location." She pauses. "I found him."

"You did," Wash says. "Well. I'm glad you had a chance to—"

"He's with me."

Wash goes dead quiet for a long moment.

"You mean… _alive_ , with you?"

"Alive, with me." Carolina's tone takes on a touch of amusement. "Not so easy to kill a Freelancer, Wash. You should know that better than anybody."

"Touché," Wash says, tersely. "So. What's your plan here?"

"We drew Recovery off your trail for the time being. He helped."

Wash sounds slightly curious in spite of himself. "Did he, now."

"Yes," Carolina says, and her voice softens slightly. "Can we come in?"

Wash is silent for a moment. "I don't know if that's a good idea."

"I thought you might say that."

"But you brought him anyway."

Carolina is silent.

Wash sighs. "The others won't like it. The last they knew, he was trying to kill them."

Gives his head a slight shake. Not true. Not really. Suppose it's all the same to them, though. Carolina shoots him a glance, but says nothing.

"And there's also…" Was lowers his voice, and Maine has to suppress a snort of laughter—like talking quiet on the radio makes any difference. "Church. You know. Epsilon."

"Yes, Wash, I know who Church is."

Epsilon. Epsilon here. Didn't think about that.

"If he tries to pull something—anything— You don't know how dangerous he is, Carolina, he—"

 _"I don't know how dangerous he is?"_ Carolina growls.

Silence.

"Okay," Wash says sheepishly. "You're right, I—sorry."

Carolina exhales slowly.

"If you want us to leave, we'll leave. I don't want to cause you and your friends any more trouble. We can go."

Silence.

"I don't recommend you stay here, though. It's only a matter of time before Recovery circles back north and finds you, and there'll be more of them than before. They won't go down so easily."

Wash is silent for a moment. “We can cross that bridge when we come to it. I don't exactly want to uproot them again."

“I know.” Carolina pauses. "If you let us stay, we can help defend."

"Both of you."

"He wants to help," Carolina says. She's looking at him, for confirmation. He nods firmly.

"He wants to help," she repeats, more confidently this time. "He doesn't want to hurt anyone."

Wash is silent for another long moment. Sighs.

"Okay," he says finally. "Bring him in."

 

All roads lead to Valhalla.

Feels like a dream, rolling through the shallows, waves splashing up around the big tires, Red Base towering overhead in the sun. Following the curve of the stream around the outcropping of rock and toward the middle of the canyon. Only this time, not alone.

This time, with Carolina at the wheel.

"Freeze, dirtbags!"

Looks over his shoulder. The bright red soldier on the upper deck of Red Base has a shotgun trained on them. Pretty sure they're out of range.

"Stand down, Sarge," Carolina says dryly, pulling to a stop. "It's me."

"Stand down, Sarge," a familiar voice echoes. "I'll take it from here."

Wash. Coming from Blue Base, rifle trained on them. On him _._

Wash.

Good to see him alive. Enough that Maine doesn’t really mind staring down his barrel.

"Get out of the vehicle," Wash says coolly. "Take it nice and slow."

"Wash," Carolina says.

"I said he could come in. I didn't say we were going to roll out the red carpet. Take his weapons."

Wash and Carolina stare each other down for a moment. Maine just shrugs, snaps his pistol off his hip and hands it grip-first over to Carolina, who takes it after a reluctant beat.

He climbs out. Slow like Wash said. Chucks his M11 into the back of the hog where his rifle is, and then just to make a point he pops open his storage compartment and starts tossing things in the grass. Punctured biofoam canister. Standard-issue multitool. Standard-issue field stims. Standard-issue med kit. Half-eaten protein bar. Whoops. Forgot that was in there. And at the bottom—FILSS’s storage disc. Right. Better not throw that on the ground. She wouldn’t like that.

"Okay, okay. I get it. You’re unarmed. Pick all that crap up."

Maine shrugs, and complies. Maybe regret that. Bending over hurts a lot. Not about to let Wash see that, though.

"So that's it? Just gonna be a smartass now?"

Maine shrugs. Wash finally lowers his rifle, slightly. Cocks his helmet.

"Well? You’re here. You survived. Good job. What do you have to say for yourself?"

Carolina snorts. "Seriously?"

"Hey, you weren't there—"

"I said _freeze, dirtbags!"_

While the three of them have been standing around in the middle of the canyon, the Red sergeant has hopped down off the upper deck of the base and walked up to them. Well within shotgun range now. "I knew it! I knew we couldn't trust 'em! Freelancers! Dirty Blues, the whole lot of you! And now they've got another one! Simmons! Grif! Get out here, I need backup!"

"Sarge, what are you—"

"I see your game, Agent Washington! And yours too, Ms. Fussy Britches! Think you can put one over on old Sarge, eh? Sneak him in right past Red Base? Well, I won't stand for it!"

"You think I let him in here to increase our numbers," Wash says in flat disbelief. "On Blue Team."

"Of course! Why else would you do it? I know how you Blues are with your Freelancers and your ghosts and your bringin’ people back from the dead! First Tex, and then _you_ two, and that girl—"

"Wait," Carolina says, "what girl?"

“Hey! Assholes! People are trying to sleep here!”

Up canyon somebody’s come out of Blue Base. Yellow tank top and short shorts, bare legs and bare feet, blonde hair with dark roots piled messily on top of her head. Don’t recognize her.

“It’s after sixteen-hundred,” Wash says. “Why were you _asleep?”_

A few steps behind her, a guy in sweatpants that are a familiar shade of teal. He’s not wearing a shirt. “Why the fuck is everyone out here yelli—what the _fuck_."

"Tucker," Wash says, "Grif—I've got everything under control."

Teal rolls his eyes. "Yeah, _that_ sounds familiar."

"Go back inside—"

"You're not the boss of me! What the fuck is the Meta doing in our canyon?"

"Tucker—"

“Yeah!” the girl chimes in, “You’re not the boss of us! Who the fuck is the _Meta?”_ She squints at them, shading her eyes with a hand. “The big guy? He’s kinda hot.”

“Oh my god,” says Teal. “No he isn’t.”

The girl snorts. “Whatever!”

"What the fuck is the Meta doing _alive?"_

"AND WHAT ARE WE ALL YELLING ABOUT—"

Maine squints. Oh. The Blue with the old Mark IV helmet. Remember him, _a man named Michael looking for a friend_.

They liked him. Someone liked him.

"Caboose," Wash groans. " _Please_ go back inside the base."

"OH MY GOD THE SCARY MAN—"

Feeling’s not mutual, maybe.

"Caboose!" Teal is yelling, "I told you to stay inside with—"

"IT'S THE METAL! THE METAL MAN!"

"Not the Metal, the _Meta—"_

_"What the fuck, Carolina?!"_

Another voice in the cacophony, high and screechy, but without a body.

"You brought the _Meta_ here? What's wrong with you?"

Not a body, just a blue glow over Mark IV’s shoulder.

Maine jerks backward, stumbling straight into the bumper of the Warthog. Tightness in his chest. Breathing too fast.

"He's _not_ the Meta," Carolina says, moving in front of Maine. "Not anymore."

She wouldn’t. She wouldn’t let anything happen. Breathe.

"Yeah, well, I don't want him in my base! Or anywhere fucking near me, thanks."

Maine snorts. Feeling's mutual there.

"Did he just—oh my god, did he just fucking _laugh_ at me?"

Teal groans. "This is why I fucking _told_ you to stay inside, Church. Caboose, you were supposed to watch him—"

"I am watching Church right now—"

Carolina sounds like she's trying to suppress a snicker. "I don't think he's looking to be best friends, don't worry."

"Uh, good," says Mark IV, "because that position is kind of taken?"

"Everybody, stop!" Wash snaps. "God damn it, everyone stop yelling for _two seconds_ , please, so we can sort this out."

"You knew about this," Teal says, "didn't you? You knew she was bringing him here!"

"No! I mean, yes, as of like ten minutes ago!"

"And you didn't think you oughta maybe _ask us_ first?"

"You were, uh," Wash says awkwardly. “You were… occupied.”

"Seriously?"

Wash sounds sheepish. Guilty, even. "You're right, Tucker, I'm sorry, I just—"

"Just what? You just figured, ‘Oh, what's one more psycho supersoldier! They're used to it!’"

"Well," Wash says lamely. "Yeah. I guess it was something like that."

"I knew it!" Sarge crows.

"No! Not like that! I wasn't trying to boost our numbers, okay? I swear."

"Well, good, ‘cause you ain't gettin’ him! By the authority vested in me, I hereby conscript this soldier to serve in the glorious Red Army."

 _"What?"_ says Wash.

"Dibs," says the orange soldier, who's appeared behind the Sergeant while they were all looking up canyon. "He means dibs."

"You can't call _dibs,"_ Wash says. "This is serious."

"Hey, here at Red Base, we take the International Dibs Protocol _very_ seriously."

"What the _fuck_ ," squeaks Maroon—oh, Maroon—who's just trotted up at Orange's side. "You can't call dibs on the Meta! He'll kill us all in our sleep!"

"Think about it, Simmons," Sarge declares. "For too long, those damn dirty Blues have laid claim to every Freelancer who came through. They had Tex. They took Washington! And now they've got Carolina. And here they thought they'd just sneak the Meta on into our canyon and claim him too—"

"That is _not_ what—"

"Donut's gone purple! And taken Lopez with him!"

"That doesn't make sense, sir, he's still _Red—"_

"They got us outnumbered two to one! Well, they won't get away with it this time. The Meta's ours! You can't have him."

 _"Whaaaat?"_ Maroon shrieks.

Orange shrugs. "We did call dibs."

"They did call dibs," Carolina echoes thoughtfully, amusement creeping into her voice.

Wash stares at her. "Wait, what?"

"Well, you don't want him in Blue Base, right?"

"Not on my fucking watch," Epsilon snaps.

"Huh," Wash says slowly. "I guess that _does_ solve a few problems…" He switches back to the private channel, the one Carolina still has Maine tapped into. "Seriously, though. You have to watch him. If he tries _anything—"_

"He won't," Carolina says in a low voice.

"Okay," Wash says, back on open COM. He shoulders his rifle and spreads his hands in surrender. "I guess he's a Red."

 

“And _this_ is where we keep the extra ammo, which Grif isn’t allowed to touch, and back _there—”_

"Why would you show him that—"

“Base,” Orange says, pointing. “Back of base. Front of base. Top of base. Well, this concludes our tour. Good talk.”

Maroon goes up top to sulk.

Sarge shows him around Red Base like he hasn't been there before. Like he doesn't remember. But he does. Was a Red before. Turned his armor red. Don't have the adaptive camo now. Don't want it. Don't want to be a chameleon, full of too many voices and turning colors and hiding in the shadows.

Just want to be Maine. But there are a lot of shadows in here. Waldorf. Sydney. Garfield. Sergeant Dunn. How they died, cut into pieces. But it wasn't him. But it was his hands. But it wasn't him. But he remembers.

Carolina shadows him. Stays close, almost hovering, as they walk through the base.

They walk through the sleeping area and Sarge assigns him a bunk. Not the same one as before. (Not broken. Not ripped off the wall. None of them are. Fixed like it never happened, like there weren’t four bodies on the floor, like his boots never tracked their blood out into the grass.) Nearest him is Sarge’s bunk, made to reg, and underneath it a familiar blood-red footlocker. Can see SARGE stenciled on it in black. See it in his head without looking.

He feels Carolina’s hand on the small of his back and his breath catches in his throat.

Sarge’s onto the next thing. Right. Forgot to keep moving.

 

He doesn't remember a lot of Sarge's orientation, afterward, when Sarge goes to yell at Grif and Simmons about something or other and he sits down on his new bunk and tries to pull his head straight again.

Carolina sits next to him. Looks at him. Looks away. Hands fidgeting in her lap and he can tells she doesn’t know what to say at all. He wouldn’t either. Even if he could speak.

Wash told her to watch him. Right. Make sure he doesn’t try anything.

Don’t know what he would try.

Don’t have a footlocker so he just slides his duffel bag under the bed. Not much to his name, but it’s more than he’s had for a long time. Left his weapons in the hog. Figure Carolina can take care of them. Not like anyone’s going to let him walk around armed anyway.

He gets up to find the bathroom and Carolina almost follows him in, the footsteps at his back stopping abruptly. Wouldn’t care if she did follow. It’s all communal like on the _Invention_. Can feel her standing in the concrete threshold, just around the corner that hides the inside from view. Can hear her breathe.

He uses the bathroom and stands for a little bit after looking in the mirror with his helmet off. Face looks all right. Scruffy, haven’t shaved in a couple days. Maybe do that later. Looks like him, though. Maybe keep his helmet off for a while. Let the others get used to him.

Get used to himself.

“Maine?”

She’s come in, finally. Helmet under one arm, peering at him. “Okay in here?”

He nods, and they look at each other and then Carolina looks away. Nothing else to say. But the silence feels so heavy.

 

"Oh, hey guys! How come no one told me we had a new teammate?"

Forgot all about Pink. Didn’t see him in the cluster when they came in. Didn’t see him in the base when Sarge was showing him around. He comes in from the the north side, no helmet but Maine knows him right away for that armor. Pink. He has a sunburst of scar tissue over the right side of his face. Kind of nice not to be the only one with bad scars. Can already feel Maroon eyeballing him when he comes out of the bathroom and into the main room with his helmet off. Maroon is slouched, still helmeted, on the lumpy sofa that is inexplicably sitting in the middle of the main room of the concrete base, facing a TV on the front wall. Orange is next to him playing some video game, eyes on the screen like nobody else in the room is talking.

"I just assumed _everyone_ heard," Maroon says sulkily. "Within a 50-mile radius."

"Well, I didn't hear a thing," says Pink cheerfully. "Oh, hey big guy! You're that guy with the broom!"

"The _what?"_ Simmons says.

Maine snorts. Remember that.

"Strong silent type. I remember! Wow, those are some serious scars! Bet that did a number on the old voicebox, huh! Is that why you don't talk?"

Maine nods.

"Well, that's all right! I can't hear much out of this ear anyway." His hands are moving, making some kind of gestures. “Frank says I’m _real_ good with my hands. I’d be happy to try out my skills on you!” For some reason Maine can’t figure out, Maroon and Orange both groan.

He cocks an eyebrow.

"Oh," Pink says, "do you not sign?"

Maine shakes his head.

"You like texting better?"

Shakes his head harder.

Pink studies him thoughtfully. "Well, you want to learn?"

Furrows his brow. Not sure.

The man's brown eyes light up. "Well, I’d just _love_ to show you. It'll be good practice for me too, I'm pretty good but I'm no expert, not like Frank—Doc, I mean."

Doc. Purple.

Here too, then. Feels kind of a sinking feeling in his stomach. Might be bad.

_Hit him again._

Not good.

But Pink is still bouncing excitedly in front of him. "You go ahead and get settled in here. You can find me up mid-canyon by the wall—just look for the garden and the scarecrow, you can’t miss it. Whenever you’re ready we can get together and put those hands to work! Oh, it’ll be just the _best_."

 

Night in the base is strange.

It’s so familiar. Even though it’s not the same bed. Not the same people. Same crush of memory crowding in when he lies down and it gets quiet. Carolina’s back over at Blue Base now. Where she lives. With Wash and the others. Maroon he can just make out by the white glow of a datapad in the farthest-away bunk. Reading in bed. Orange is still playing video games in the main room. Sarge is the only one asleep, his snores rattling off the concrete walls.

Not the noise keeping him awake.

He tries. Tries to sleep, but instead he stares up at the concrete ceiling and feels his hands tearing the bunk out of the wall and fuck, he doesn’t know what’s going to happen if he falls asleep here.

What he might do.

What if he forgets who he is. Panics. Does something stupid and they get scared and kick him out.

Carolina. Carolina wouldn’t let them kick him out. Right? Or she’d go with him. Take him somewhere else.

Somewhere else. Where?

She belongs here. Maybe he doesn’t.

Rolls onto his right side, trying to get comfortable in the too-short bed, his knees bent so they almost touch the wall.

Dark. Quiet. Just a night. Try to sleep.

But he closes his eyes and hears the ghosts of old voices, and it all starts up again.

 

He gives the fuck up and rolls out of bed.

From the noises coming from the main room of the base, Orange is still up playing games. No one should care if he’s up. Right? No curfew out here. At least no one said.

Orange doesn’t notice him go by.

 

There’s no moon up tonight. Sun’s just down over the lake, stars coming out. Maybe not supposed to be sleeping yet anyway. Somehow thought it was later. Maybe he got mixed up. Still having trouble with time.

Stars. Two years on this rock, you’d think he’d know some of the constellations by now, but he doesn’t. Know all this shit he doesn’t want. Don’t know things that might actually be useful.

He sighs and lowers himself to sit on the rocky shore. Hurts on the left side. Feels his breath wheezing when he bends his body.

Better once he’s sitting. The COM tower when it shoots its bright spark up in the air sends a rippling reflection across the water, like broken blue glass, disappearing just as quick like the pieces have sunk to the bottom. Don’t know what kind of tech that is but he’s almost certain it’s not human. Two years on this rock. So many things he never thought about. Never had the chance to.

Don’t know if this is going to work, being here. Don’t know if he can live here. Sleep. Be Maine, in a place so full of ghosts.

Can’t tell her. Can’t leave. Well. He could. Don’t want to.

Not as long as she still wants him here.

Looks down at his hands. Remember Pink with his hands moving. _Love to teach you_. Maybe something he should do. Might help. At least be able to explain things. Ask questions.

Never used to have so many questions.

Lot of memories out here, too. Something about the night air and the sound of the water quietly lapping the shore makes him want a cigarette. Probably fuck up his lung real good.

He stares across the water until it starts to blur in front of his eyes, until everything feels hazy and for a second he thinks maybe Garfield really is gonna come out of Red Base, knocking her pack of Luckies against her palm and offering him one. Garfield alive. The rest of it not real.

But the worst thing still real.

No. Garfield’s dead. Remember all of that too well. More likely to be freezing-drowning in the water, memories painted on the silver-white sky above. Tasting salt, blood, smoke.

Don’t want a fucking cigarette anymore.

Never really was a smoker anyway. ‘Specially not in Freelancer. Carolina would’ve killed him. Any member of her squad she caught doing that shit.

Thought makes him smile a little.

“Maine?”

Almost jumps out of his skin. Twists too fast to see, and gasps, his chest on fire. _Fuck._

Learn how to say that first.

“Sorry,” Carolina says, dropping almost silently to a sitting position beside him. “Didn’t mean to scare you.” She has her helmet off, her hair in a messy ponytail. Eyes tired.

He nods. It’s okay.

“Can’t sleep?”

Shakes his head.

She nods. “Me either.”

Wonder if she usually sleeps bad. Can’t ask, so he just nods again.

“Is it okay,” she says, haltingly, “being over here?”

He shrugs. Nowhere else to go. Better here than Blue Base with Epsilon screaming at him. Better here than on the dead ship alone. Right? Better here than nowhere.

She’s looking at him. Shrug probably wasn’t a good answer.

He nods. It’s okay.

She’s still looking at him. She doesn’t nod back.

Still not a good answer.

He looks down at the ground, chest tight.

Been a long time since he really wished he had words again. Can't tell her anything. Couldn’t even answer the simplest question with more than yes, no, don't know.

Guess that just used to be enough. Yes, no, want this, don't want that. Used to be all he needed to say, most of the time.

First time the silence between them ever felt wrong.

 

She stays. Doesn’t ask any more questions, just sits with him by the water, picking up stones and skipping them on the dark surface. Never did know how people do that. He watches the light off the ripples. Carolina shifts position probably once a minute, one knee up and one leg tucked under, then the other knee, then cross-legged, then one knee up. Restless. Never could sit still.

But she stays. Doesn’t talk. It’s okay. After a bit it doesn’t feel as bad, the silence. Better than being alone.

He gets up to move when she does, sighing and stretching her legs in front of her and then rolling to her feet. “Sleep in if you want. No one minds around here.”

Right. No reason to roll out of bed at oh-five-hundred.

He nods. Watches her go, rounding Red Base on the western side, heading up toward Blue Base. When she turns, looks over her shoulder, he looks away. Maybe she saw him anyway.

 

The console’s quiet when he goes inside. Well, almost. Cycling through menu music. Quieter. Orange is sprawled on the couch still, snoring, controller on his chest. Maine walks past him, doesn’t touch a thing.

From his bunk he can still here the menu music, faintly, and he listens to it in the dark. Familiar. He lies there, trying to remember. Don’t think there was a game console in Red Base before. He’d remember that. The couch too. Wonder where they came from.

It’s not from Red Base. It’s the game itself he remembers. Some shooter they used to play back on the _Invention_. Something that’s Maine’s. Real.

If he can stay real, stay now, he can fall asleep.

Maybe it’ll be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as a note, this was all written before season 16 and planned out long before that. This story as a whole aims to be fairly canon-compliant (barring the obvious divergences) with material revealed through season 13 but does not heavily consider anything revealed after that.


	9. Eat

The bed’s not broken.

He wakes stretching his legs as far as they’ll go, feet hitting concrete wall, and he groans as he rolls onto his side and the motion sends spikes of pain through his left side. Reaches for his helmet to check the time.

Morning. No. Later than morning. Slept in. Nobody woke him. Carolina said that was okay. Maybe no one cares.

Something smells good.

He rolls his stiff shoulder out and shuffles out of bed and toward the smell, and his stomach growls fiercely. Fuck. Can’t remember when he last ate. Early yesterday probably. Hungry.

As he lumbers toward the smell, there’s a hissing sound. No. Sizzling.

Food. _Food._

Base kitchens were never much. Hot plate, ready-to-eat and just-add-water meals, bunch of banged-up steel dishes. In Valhalla’s bases, the kitchen’s tucked up in an alcove at the front of the base, in the sort of nose of the base’s main level.

Shuffling through the central room, legs still stiff, Maine sniffs.

_Bacon._

 

The kitchen’s small, crowded with supply crates leaving barely enough room for two people to stand side-by-side. At least when one is Maine’s size. And Orange’s size. Orange is shorter but still wide.

He’s cooking eggs in a misshapen steel pan on a hot plate. Stirring them around with a spoon.

It makes so little sense that for a minute he thinks he’s really dreaming but Orange glances over his shoulder and says, “Hey man, these are mine. Make your own,” and he sees a pile of eggshells in the sink, and set on the couple of crates passing for counter, an empty can that says FULLY COOKED BACON and a steel bowl with a little pile of brown eggs in it.

Real eggs.

He grunts and cocks his head in the direction of the bowl, furrowing his brow.

“Donut,” Orange says, which makes no sense at all because there aren’t any donuts, though Maine kind of wants one now, and maybe Orange didn’t understand the question, or Maine didn’t understand him, or who the fuck knows. He’s pulling the pan off the heat now, scraping the eggs out onto a plate alongside a sizable pile of bacon strips. Orange stuffs a strip in his mouth and heads out to the main room with his plate.

Make your own. Well, he said to, didn’t he? It’s gotta be okay. Have to eat, after all.

 

Can’t even remember the last time he cooked. He realizes this after he scrubs out Grif’s used pan at the sink and cracks four eggs in a bowl and scrambles them up with a fork and dumps them in the pan. Probably should’ve put some butter in there first or something. Or oil? Don’t know. Eggs are really sticking to the bottom. He stirs them sort of frantically, trying to scrape them off the pan so they don’t burn. They end up kinda dry but they look edible enough. Smell good too.

Maybe there’s more of that bacon.

He digs through a couple of supply crates, and is about to give up because his eggs are getting cold but here it is, a whole crate packed top to bottom with cans, FULLY COOKED BACON. READY TO EAT, OR REHEAT AND SERVE. Haven’t seen one of those since Infantry.

He pops the pull-tab up and peels the lid off, dumping the roll of paper-wrapped strips onto the counter.

_Bacon_.

He pops a cold strip in his mouth. Not crispy but not bad either. Chewy, smokey, and salty. Tastes good. He chews slowly, savors it before he swallows. Good. Probably better heated up, but his eggs are going to get cold.

He carries his plate out to the common room, where Orange is eating. Stops. Hesitates. Could just go in the back, eat at his bunk. Not bother anyone.

But he lives here now.

He takes a seat on the couch, on the opposite end from Orange. Couch is lumpy and creaks when he puts his weight on it. Orange is eying him. He doesn’t look back. Just settles in to eat the eggs while they’re warm.

They taste good, even without salt which he forgot to look for in the kitchen. Really good. Don’t remember the last time he had fresh eggs. Even aboard ship it’s usually those vacuum-packed liquid eggs. Longer shelf life for space.

Maine stuff his food down. Eggs are easy to eat. Bacon is a little rougher to swallow but still not bad. Brings that saltiness he’s missing with the eggs. He takes a little of both in each bite. It’s good. Could eat twice as much as he put on his plate probably. Good enough for now.

A noise from the back makes him turn his head. Maroon stalks through the main room, muttering under his breath. Doesn’t look at either of them. Just heads for the kitchen. Helmet off. First time he’s seen him that way. Pale freckled skin, sandy-red hair.

“Grif!” Maroon barks from the kitchen. Grif. Orange. Should remember that. His teammate now. “You better do your dishes when you’re done eating!”

“Yeah, yeah.” Grif’s chewing on his last strip of bacon. Shoots a look in Maine’s direction. “Don’t mind Simmons. He’s always grumpy in the morning.”

“It’s eleven!” Simmons yells back. “The day’s half over!”

Grif shrugs and sets his cleaned plate beside him on the couch. “Take that back. He’s always grumpy _always_.”

“I heard that,” Simmons calls.

“Yeah, that’s ‘cause I said it out loud.” Grif shifts position and digs a video game controller out of the couch cushions.

Maine snorts.

Then Simmons comes back from the kitchen, with what looks like a granola bar, and Maine has to squint because Simmons has his gloves off and from this side he can see the guy’s left hand is definitely made out of metal.

Maine finishes eating and gets up from the couch, collecting his plate, and after a glance in Grif’s direction, his empty plate too.

Might as well make himself useful.

 

He washes up the plates and the egg pan at the sink. Takes a while to scrub off the stuck-on egg. Cleaning up after them probably isn’t gonna make Simmons like him, but it’s a start. Gives him something to do, too.

Coming back out into the common room, something mounted on the back wall catches his eye for the first time. Something Sarge didn't mention in the tour.

"Hey man," says Grif from the couch. "Don't even think about it."

It's his old weapon. The Brute shot. Kinda scuffed up but clean. Somebody must’ve picked it up off the battlefield, polished it up and mounted it on the wall. It looks in good shape. No rust on the blade. Kinda wish he could take it down and play with it again. Don’t think they’d like that much.

Have to admit though, it looks pretty good there.

"You were dead," Grif says defensively. "Fair's fair, man. I called dibs."

He shrugs. Grif shoots him a glance.

"Man. When did you get so chill, anyway?"

Can't think of a way to say "When I died" that Grif will understand, so he just shrugs again.

Grif waves him over. "Well, if you're gonna be chill, come and chill already. Simmons never wants to play, and my sister's always too busy over at Blue Base."

Maine cocks his head. Thinks about that.

Takes a seat. Grif hands him a controller.

 

They play for a while. Maine knows the game pretty well. South liked it a lot. He remembers that. Remember her yelling, laughing, cussing out Wash when he got a one-hit on her from behind.

Good to remember. Feels like Maine.

Bad to remember because then he has to remember that South is dead.

Maroon—Simmons, he’s gotta start learning their names—passes through the room a few times but doesn’t stay. Shoots Maine dirty looks every time he goes by. Can’t tell if he’s scared or just pissed. Well. Could be both.

Guess that’s just how it’s gonna be.

But it’s fun playing the game with Grif. They do slayer mode and Grif gets him every time. Out of practice. Then one-on-one capture the flag, and Maine’s starting to get back into it by then so he wins a couple.

They play until Grif calls a break and goes out back for a smoke. Could join him, but. Lungs wouldn’t like it.

He gets up to stretch his legs anyway, thinking maybe he’ll go do some push-ups or something. Should try to get in better shape. But maybe they wouldn’t like that. Maybe him trying to get stronger would look like a threat.

Maine sighs.

 

"Enemy sighted! Battle stations!"

"Oh come on, Sarge, I'm not even _armed_."

The sound of Carolina’s voice perks him right up.

When he peeks out the door on the western side Carolina’s there, hip cocked and arms crossed and staring up at Sarge, who’s on the upper deck with his shotgun trained on her.

For a second he almost feels like he’s dreaming again. Like it can’t be real. Being here, in Valhalla, eating real food and playing video games and Carolina walking up to the base like it’s the most normal thing.

Like she wasn’t dead for two years.

Sarge grunts skeptically. "You lady Freelancers never did need weapons to kill anyone."

" _Sarge_ ," she says, a little snappish, but softening up again, dropping her arms to her sides. "I'm just here for Maine. I have to be able to check on him if he's going to stay here."

Sarge studies her quizzically. "'Maine,' huh?"

"Maine," Carolina says firmly.

He keeps quiet in the doorway. Sarge and Carolina stare each other down for a minute.

"Well, all right," Sarge says grudgingly. "You can check on him. But no funny stuff! I'm watchin' you, Blue!"

Carolina puts her hands on her hips and cocks her head. "You know, I never actually _said_ I was a Blue."

Have to admit, he's kind of enjoying this.

"The armor's a dead giveaway! You ain't foolin' anyone."

Carolina catches sight of him in the entryway then, and gives her helmet a little tilt. "Can I talk to him now?"

"Yeah, yeah," Sarge grumbles, gesturing with his shotgun barrel. "Go on."

 

They go out to the beach together. Grif’s gone back inside, the smell of cigarette smoke lingering faintly in the air. Figure it's nice to have a little privacy. And quiet. Past 24 hours have been a lot. Days of solitude, traveling just the two of them, the unrealness just of having her alive—

and then this, a familiar canyon full of people he doesn't know. People who should by rights have shot him on sight. Wash included, he supposes.

Instead they let him in, and now he's living with them.

Hell of a day.

"They're idiots," Carolina says, a kind of fondness in her voice, as they take a seat on the rocky shore. "But they're—they're all right. More than all right. They helped me out when they didn't have to. When they probably shouldn't have." She picks up a stone, skips it across the surface of the water, three skips before it disappears. He picks one up, imitates her movement but it just plunks into the water and sinks. "Get any sleep?"

He makes a handwavey gesture. Nods. Got some.

“How’re you feeling?” she says finally. “That wound healing up?”

He gives a half-nod half-shrug. Guess it is. Be dead if it wasn’t.

“You should have Doc take a look.”

Doc. Purple. The medic.

_I didn't want you to run an intelligence report on him, I wanted a medical one._

He shrugs. Looks away. Probably not a good idea.

“Hey,” Carolina says, a little more sharply, and he looks at her, startled. “I mean it. You don’t know what kind of permanent damage there could be. Could at least find out how not to make it worse.”

He rumbles ambivalently. Whatever damage there is is already done.

There’s a long pause before Carolina continues.

“Wash still has the healing unit.” She looks away. Looks out at the water. Another beat passes. “You know. York’s.”

He knows.

“I can ask him to let you use it. Might help reduce the permanent tissue damage. Heal faster.”

Shrugs. Wash won’t like that probably.

“It can’t hurt,” Carolina says. And then, a little more sharply: _“Maine_. Look at me.”

He swallows. Looks at her. For a second, he thinks she’s angry. But when his eyes meet hers they’re not angry. Just worried.

Sad, maybe.

He grunts softly. Don’t need to worry about him. He’s alive. Against whatever odds. Made it this far. Don’t need her worrying about him.

“Let me ask him,” she says. “Okay?”

He nods. Even his face feels tired.

She pats him on the shoulder, and god, there’s no word for how much he wants to just lean into her. If there is he doesn’t know it. There’s a heaviness in his limbs, and he wonders, is this just how it is from here on, him this dead weight she has to carry around and worry about and take care of.

Was a time _taking care of him_ didn’t feel like a bad thing. Didn’t feel like a burden. Feels so different now. Wish he had something to give, something to make it worth it for all of them to keep him around. Not just Carolina. Everyone. The Reds. Eating their food and sleeping in their base. Taking up space being alive when he should be dead.

She rubs his shoulder, and he sighs. Nods again. She wants this. Wants him to be okay, at least. Alive.

Okay.

She nods back. “Settling in okay?”

Nods again. Think he is. Got a lot of things to figure out. A lot to learn about being a person around other people again. A lot of questions he can't ask.

He remembers Pink’s offer right about then. Sign language. Sounds hard, learning all the words all over again. Was hard enough growing up trying to keep track of two languages, and where he was supposed to speak one and not the other, and his words got mixed up and speaking was hard to begin with. Once he left home it was easier. Assigned to an English-speaking unit and that was it. Lost most of his Ukrainian, couldn’t remember more than a few words now and couldn’t say them if he did remember.

Could be better. Maybe not as bad as trying to pick out letters on a datapad. Can try. Don’t have to keep going if it’s bad.

He glances at Carolina, worrying a flat stone between her fingers before sending it skipping, one-two-three across the surface of the lake. Sun’s high overhead and the ripples gleam gold. Feel the silence stretch between them. Maybe it’ll always be like this. Can’t go back to how they were. He knows that much.

But if he’s gonna do this, be Maine, be alive—he should try.

 

So after Carolina heads back over to Blue Base, he gets up and takes a walk.

Pink said mid-canyon, by the wall, and he knows where that is even if he doesn’t know why he’d be there. The outcropping on the eastern side of the canyon means you can’t really see the wall from Red Base, and Maine kind of blinks when he rounds the corner between the boulders and there’s a little shack thing built up against the wall that definitely wasn’t there before.

Pretty sure there was a big hole there, before.

And there’s Pink behind the garden fence, kneeling in the dirt by what looks like a row of cabbages. There are several chickens pecking around in the grass around the front of the shack and suddenly the eggs at Red Base make more sense. There is also some kind of scarecrow in the garden, topped with a brown helmet that looks vaguely familiar. Around the perimeter of the garden are all kinds of flowers, bright and colorful in the sun.

Pink looks up as he comes closer, blinks. “Oh, hey there!”

He waves hello.

“You caught me on my knees here!” Pink says cheerfully, getting to his feet slowly and a little gingerly, it seems like, brushing off his hands. “Didn’t hear you coming. Want to learn some signs?”

Nod.

“Well that’s just great. Lemme go inside and get washed up and we can start right away!”

 

They start with the alphabet. Sitting in the grass outside the garden shack, Pink takes his gloves off, revealing smooth and perfectly manicured brown hands, and starts showing him the signs and having Maine do them back. A few of the chickens circle them curiously. Maine eyes them warily.

"Your E is screaming!” Donut chides him, with a comfortable bossiness that reminds Maine for a moment of Wash. “Here, bring your fingers down to your thumb, like this."

He grumbles.

"There you go! Now F is like this."

Maine squints. Shakes his head. That's the OK sign. In military it's the "I understand" sign. Used it a lot in Infantry. Can’t mean both things.

"I know it's weird! But that’s just the way it’s done."

Maine grumbles again, but makes the sign.

Some of the signs look like their letters. Others don't look anything like them at all. F is the worst one for that. Y is hard for his hand to make. His pinky doesn't want to stay up. He likes X. Doesn't look like the letter, it _feels_ like how the letter _sounds_ , ecks, sharp and toothy. Like a claw.

They run through the alphabet three times, Pink speaking the letters as they go, mirroring the letter to Maine and helping him fix his signs when he gets them wrong.

"All right, now spell my name! D-O-N-U-T."

Oh. Donut. Now that part makes sense too.

He always wants to forget D even though it does look like the letter. His fingers try to go the opposite way, make F instead. Don’t know why. O is easy, N is easy, U he remembers, T is a tooth between his knuckles. "Donut."

"Great! Now do _your_ name."

His name.

M, three fingers laid over the thumb. A, the fist with thumb at the side. I, pinky up. N, like M but with two fingers. E, closed, not screaming. "Maine."

Donut spells it back to him. "Maine, huh?"

He nods.

"Oh, hi there."

Purple.

_Doc_ is what Carolina called him. Wash too, when he thinks back. Doc. The medic. Helmet off. Dark hair, curly, longer than he remembers. Than Maine remembers. Remember those eyes, looking too deep into his own. Remember taking his helmet off, wanting to look away.

Maybe Doc won't want him here. Kick him out. Send him back to Red Base. Tell him to stay away from Donut.

But instead Doc just flops down in the grass beside him and Donut, and says, signing while he speaks, "I remember you! Do you remember me?"

Maine nods reluctantly.

For some reason he can’t figure out, Doc looks pleased. "We never really got properly introduced before! I’m Medical Officer Dufresne.” His hands move even easier than Donut’s hands, fluid and fast, and even not knowing the signs, it’s kind of neat to watch. He notices how Donut keeps his eyes on Doc's hands. “You can call me Frank or Doc."

"Those are his namesigns," Donut explains, signing too, though Maine doesn't understand enough of what he's seeing to have picked up what they were. "Frank's parents are deaf, so he got one when he was a kid, but I gave him a new one after he saved my life!"

Saved his life. Right. Donut was shot.

Shot by Wash. Wash who lives right up canyon in Blue Base.

Maybe letting him come here wasn't so strange for these guys after all.

Doc spells his own name back to him. "So you're Maine."

Nod.

"Your friend called you Meta, back when…"

Nod.

"So you're not the Meta anymore?"

Shakes his head firmly.

Half-expects Doc to argue with him on that, but instead Doc just kind of peers at him—not his face, he realizes, more like his neck—and says, "You really can't talk at all, huh?"

Shakes his head.

"Hmm. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm not doubting your word? Just unusual, with that type of throat trauma—reconstructive surgery and speech therapy usually does a lot."

Maine shrugs.

"Guess yours was pretty bad," Doc says, thoughtfully, then glances at Maine sideways. "They give you any speech therapy at all? Even to try?"

Shakes his head. Don't remember anything like that.

Doc's expression darkens, slightly.

"And nobody offered to teach you sign or anything? Give you a texting device or?"

Shakes his head. Makes a face. Don’t like text.

"Still. They just shoved an AI in your head and that was it?"

Nod.

"Hm. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm not a doctor. But that doesn't sound right to me."

Shrug.

Doc studies him thoughtfully. "Well, I could ask a lot more questions, but you wouldn't be able to answer them yet, so…"

Donut puts his hand on Doc's shoulder and grins. "Give it time! I think he’s gonna be _great_ with his hands, once he gets a feel for it."

Hope so. Got some questions of his own.

"That's about enough for today, I think! Keep practicing your alphabet, and tomorrow we'll start working on other signs. For now, you should come and see our crops!"

 

Figured "crops" just meant those few cabbages and squash and corn stalks growing in that patch next to the shack, but then Donut invites him inside.

The shack is… a lot bigger inside.

Actually, the part visible from outside is just an entryway. There's a dusty woven rug spread over the packed dirt floor, a bucket of garden tools set to one side. And then Donut ushers him through a concrete archway which, he realizes, is actually that hole he remembers blasted through the wall itself.

Things sure have changed around here.

On the other side of the wall is a whole home. Living room, dining room, what's probably a bedroom off to the south side, everything pretty nicely furnished. You can sort of tell the walls are built from pieces of shipping container and scrap metal, but it's impressive.

Maine is impressed.

And out the back door—ah, here's what Donut meant by crops. Actual crops.

They're in a broad, flat valley adjacent to Valhalla—you can still see the big concrete wall that was supposed to separate them towering up over what is by comparison a pretty small little makeshift house. But the rest of the valley, end to end, is tilled brown dirt with little pale green shoots coming up in rows on rows.

No idea what any of it is, but he makes impressed noises and Doc and Donut beam with pride. Supposed it must have taken them a lot of work to get all this done. Hasn’t been that long since he and Wash were here. Three weeks? A month? All this built since then.

“We don’t really get supply drops out here anymore,” Doc says, as they survey the valley, “so we’ve been looking for ways to supplement our food supply. Got a late start, though. Hopefully we can get enough to help us through the winter!”

Guess that makes sense. Hadn’t thought real hard about how the sim bases kept supplied. Or, well. Maybe he did think about it. Someone did. Remember fishing through crates, looking for meal drinks. Remember radio calls and beef jerky requests.

No more supply drops. Makes sense. Someone else running Command now. In charge of Recovery.

And they aren’t supposed to be here at all.

 

Doc invites him to lunch, and for the second time that day, he smells _food_. Real food.

Life for the past fews years, what he remembers of it, has been protein shakes, MREs and the occasional not-terrible instant meal. Forgot there was anything else, and honestly he couldn't tell you what he's looking at in the bowl in front of him for the life of him. Tomato. That much he knows. And that's definitely onion. And something purple he can’t remember the name of.

He eats two bowls, because he finishes the first and Doc just fills it up again and he keeps eating.

"Ratatouille," Doc says cheerfully, a word that Maine definitely does not recognize and is pretty sure he's never heard in his life. "Old family recipe! Glad you like it.”

So different from the taste of MREs and protein shakes and instant food. Textures too. Chalky, mushy, starchy, and always a bland sweet or salty. Not much other flavor. Hope Doc isn’t offended when he adds more salt to his bowl. Too used to it. Like to get used to this instead. By his second bowl he slows down, chewing more thoroughly, remembering what this is like. Food. Real food.

Something about it makes his body feel more real. More him.


	10. Learn

Day two is questions. Got a lot of those.

Never had trouble before. Wash always understood him. Carolina always understood him. He came back different. More complicated. Too much to say, too many questions and no way to ask them.

Maybe they came back different too.

 

 _What_ , open hands low at his waist. _Where_ , index finger waving. _When_ , same finger circling and coming to land on the opposite index finger, like finding a date on a calendar, Donut says. _Who_ , thumb under the chin, index finger crooked like X, eyebrows pushed together questioning.

Helmets off. Faces are important, Donut says. Makes sense. Always kind of used his face to say things he didn’t need words for.

"Hey."

The three of them look up at once.

“Oh hey, Carolina!” Donut says cheerfully, signing as he speaks.

“Hey Doc,” Carolina says, stopping at Maine’s side. “Do you think you could give Maine a look-over today? He was pretty badly wounded before we came here.”

“I know,” Doc says. “I was there, remember?”

“Oh,” Carolina says, after a beat. “Right. Sorry. I forgot.”

“That’s okay,” Doc says, unperturbed. “You weren’t there.”

Can feel the way Carolina stiffens next to him, the pause before she continues. “Right. Anyway, I just. I want to make sure he’s healing.” Another pause. “Wash has an old healing unit that belonged to one of our—to Project Freelancer. If it could help, I want to have him try it.”

“A healing unit, huh?” Donut says. “Wow! That sounds _super_ handy. I wish I’d had one of these!”

The silence is longer this time, and tighter. They’re sitting not ten yards from where Donut was shot. Where Wash shot him.

Bad feeling in his chest. Bad thing.

“I,” says Carolina. “I mean, _you_ could use it, too. Of course. If you want to. I mean—”

“That’d be really good,” Doc says. “GSWs are no joke! Donut’s just lucky the shot only went through the soft tissue and Simmons got some biofoam in there before he could bleed out! I was able to stabilize him when I got back from up north, but it’s slow healing without any real medical technology out here.”

Maine nods. True.

“It was _awful_ for my mani-pedi routine,” Donut says mournfully. “I couldn’t bend over for weeks!”

Maine snorts.

“Yes,” Carolina says, slightly bewildered. “I. Yes. That sounds terrible.”

She pops the healing unit out of her armor. Like most armor enhancements, it doesn’t look like a lot. A compact unit that slides into a standard enhancement slot. Never did understand why York got that one. You get shot picking a lock, your mission’s already gone sideways.

Then again, a lot of things don’t make sense, looking back.

He points to Donut. He should have it first.

Half expect Carolina to argue, but she nods okay. Hands the unit off to Doc. “Without an AI to run the unit, you’ll have to input the parameters manually for it to target specific areas. I can—show you how to interface your HUD to Donut’s, so you can set it up for him.”

“No need!” Donut says brightly. “We’ve been interfacing for weeks already!”

Carolina chokes back what sounds like a laugh. “That’s—great.”

“I’ll set it up right now,” Doc says happily. “You two can trade off. Mornings and afternoons, maybe. A few hours a day for each of you should do wonders for your healing.” He moves behind Donut, finding the equipment slot and sliding the healing unit in until it snaps into place. “There we go… lemme just get these settings…”

Carolina shifts from one foot to the other. “I can interface too if you need help setting it up—”

“Ooh,” Donut says, sitting up straighter. “That tickles!”

Maine snickers.

“Think I got it!” Doc says proudly. “After we finish up our lessons today I can give Maine a check-up, and he can use it.” He shoots Maine a glance. “I mean, if that’s cool with you.”

Maine nods reluctantly.

Carolina looks a little doubtful, but doesn’t press it. She shifts her weight again and Maine realizes it’s more than doubt. She’s nervous. "Got room for one more?"

"Sure!” Doc says. “You want to learn too?”

"I—yeah," Carolina says haltingly, almost shyly, brushing her hair out of her eyes. "I'd—like to do that. If it's okay."

"Absolutely!” Donut chimes in. “You're welcome here in our little hole-in-the-wall anytime. And the more people know how to sign around here, the better! Knowing a language is all very well—" here he glances upward, and Maine follows his gaze to the scarecrow, "—but if no one else knows it, why, you can only talk to yourself!"

"Podría haberte dicho eso," the scarecrow says, and Maine nearly jumps out of his skin. No one else seems surprised that the helmet is talking, not even Carolina.

Furrows his brow. Points. Signs. “What?”

“Oh, that’s just Lopez!” Donut says cheerfully.

"Hablo español, Lopez," Carolina says, a dry amusement in her voice. “Soy tejana.”

“A nadie le importa,” says the robot head.

Don’t know what the words mean but they stick somehow. Something not his. Not enough to speak the language, or really understand it, but it feels familiar. Uncomfortably. Like being stuck between two languages again.

Wonder if he pushed deeper into the memory, maybe he’d understand. That feels wrong too.

“Maine?”

He blinks.

“You okay?”

He makes his head nod, trying to bring Doc’s face back into focus.

“I said let’s you and I go over questions again, okay? Donut can take Carolina through the alphabet.”

Okay.

 

His hands feel clumsy on _why_ , just like with the letter Y, his pinky wanting to bend when he pulls his middle three fingers in. But he can do it. Practice.

Going to need that one later.

Words might feel better in his hands, he thinks. Even the hard ones. Going to take time, can’t say much until has more words. Hard to wait. Hard to be patient. But he can do this.

He needs to.

 

“What do you think?” Carolina asks.

She’s hovering nervously around while Doc gives Maine his checkup. Feels strange being at the center of everyone’s attention. Kind of wish he had his helmet on. It’s just the three of them inside the farmhouse, Donut’s outside, and Maine definitely doesn’t want Carolina to leave—she offered to, he said no. Stay. But the hum of Doc’s medical scanner and the thoughtful gaze of his dark eyes moving from the scanner to Maine’s face and back to the scanner is uncomfortably familiar.

Wish he could just disappear.

“Well, he’s definitely having trouble with his breathing,” Doc says thoughtfully. “Rest of his vitals are strong.” He lowers the scanner, and shrugs. “Sorry. Not a whole lot more I can tell you without more equipment. I’m not a doctor, you know. I’m just a medic.”

“You think the healing unit will help him, though?”

“I mean, it’ll speed up the healing of the tissue damage, sure. Long as his ribs don’t get misaligned they should heal all right. No heavy lifting or anything like that.”

Maine grumbles. Heavy lifting and hitting is most of what he’s good for. Can’t even do that now.

“For how long?”

“A couple weeks maybe? I don’t really know, Carolina, I’m just estimating.” Doc looks at Maine, shrugs. “If it hurts, you should probably stop.”

He grunts.

“Anything else he should do?” Carolina prods.

“You could try yoga!” Doc says cheerfully.

Carolina looks about to snap at him, but at the last moment her face changes. Lips curve up in a little smirk. “Well, I always did tell him he needed to work on his flexibility.

Maine snorts and makes a face at her. Her smirk widens. He likes that.

Almost forgot what it was like to see her look like that.

“Feel free to join us in the garden in the morning!” Doc says sunnily. “Yoga’s a wonderful way to greet the sunrise. I’m sure Donut would be thrilled to have you!”

Maine makes a face. Mornings. Well. Might be something to do if he can’t sleep.

 

Back out in the garden, Donut hands off the healing unit.

The unit powers up from the HUD and Carolina interfaces with him and shows him how to set it up. Without an AI or setting the parameters manually, the unit just targets the whole body equally. Not efficient. Enough to keep you alive, maybe.

He thinks of Wash, facedown in the dirt, blood spreading under him. Remember not touching him. Leaving the unit behind.

Wasn’t him, but was, at the same time. Because of him they didn’t take it. Because they were scared enough of what he’d do, if Wash died.

Strange to have the unit now.

Donut’s right, it does feel weird. Spreads an unnatural heat under your skin. Tingles that make him want to pull off his undersuit and rub it away. Remember that from his time in medical on the _Invention,_ hours every morning dozing under the hum of the regenerator.

At least now he can do other things while it works. Just for a few hours every day. Mornings for Donut. Afternoons for him.

Wonder how much Donut thinks about it, the pistol in Wash’s hand and the shot and falling in the grass, in the same place he lives now.

How does he do it?

Maybe not the same. But something like it. The way he can feel the shadows of Garfield and Sydney and Waldorf when he walks around Red Base, the way sometimes when he hears Sarge yelling he thinks it’s Sergeant Dunn.

But Donut doesn’t seem haunted like that. Doesn’t walk around with a head full of ghosts and followed by shadows. Donut lives in the sun, surrounded by flowers and melons and green stalks of corn.

Maybe he can’t live like that, but he can live. Even if he still has to carry the ghosts.

 

Donut asks him if he wants to be done for the day, but Maine’s feeling better being back outside and he’d rather have something to think about besides the weird sensation of the healing unit, and Carolina’s been through the alphabet now and run through _who, what, where, when, why, how, yes, no_. And if they stop for the day, maybe she’ll go back to Blue Base and he’ll go back to Red.

And it’s okay, he doesn’t mind, but it’s nice being here with her.

So when Donut asks if he wants to stop, he shakes his head, and Donut breaks into a grin.

“Let’s do some people, then! We can just go ahead and do everyone in this canyon!”

Most of the people in the canyon don’t have name signs. You spell it or you just call them by their color and everyone knows who you’re talking about. Funny finding out the way he’s been thinking about people is actually right, in sign language. It’s harder with Blue Team, Donut says, there aren’t signs for every color name like teal and cobalt so they say T-Blue for Tucker, C-Blue for Caboose. Yellow for Blue Team’s Grif is easy.

“Blue team. Why yellow?”

“Huh!” Donut says, tilting his head. “You know, I never really thought about it!”

There’s a sign for _church_ , C hand on top of a fist and that’s what they call Epsilon. Washington is W hand, rolled out from the opposite shoulder.

“What about ‘Carolina?’” Carolina says curiously.

“Well, there isn’t really a sign for ‘Carolina,’ by itself, what with there being two states and all.” Doc shrugs. “There’s different ones for North and South, and it’d just be NC or SC.”

Maine furrows his brow.

“Not from Earth, are you?” Donut says cheerfully.

Shakes his head.

“Well, for now we can just spell it. C-A-R-O-L-I-N-A.”

Maine spells it again. Carolina does too. She’s still pretty slow with the letters. Makes him feel better.

“And Maine is like this!” Donut makes an F-hand, makes quick short downward movements on the left side of the chest.

Maine squints.

“Why?”

“Hey, great!” Doc chimes in. “You remember your questions!”

“Why?”

“I sure don’t know!” Donut says, unperturbed. “I’m from Iowa! That one we just spell, too. Like this!”

Maine spells it back. Then spells his own name. “Maine.”

“You like it better fingerspelled, huh?”

Nod. Makes a face. The F-hand doesn’t make sense. Don’t like it.

“Well, it’s your name,” Doc says, and smiles. “I guess you can say it however you want.”

 

After lessons they give Carolina the tour. Donut chatters the whole time about interior decoration. Keeps looking eagerly at Carolina, who looks around and makes appropriately admiring noises, which seems to satisfy Donut.

Then they go out back to see the crops in the adjoining valley.

“Where did you _get_ all this?” Carolina says, bewildered. “I mean, you had to have _seeds_ and…” She trails off. Maine feels about the same. No idea what it actually takes to grow food out of the ground, other than… seeds, he figures. Didn’t grow up around farms. Spent his childhood in the post-industrial wasteland of Mykolaev, got offworld as soon as he could, and spent the years after that in training and aboard ship.

“Oh, from Command!” Doc says. “Back when they were still taking requisitions, of course.”

“From Command,” Carolina repeats. “They sent you farming supplies.”

“Oh, yeah! Used to be they’d send you just about anything you asked for. I mean, sometimes you’d have to ask a few times, but you just had to know how to wear ‘em down.” Doc grins. “On my first assignment I got them to ship me a peace lily. Kept it alive for five months in that canyon before one of the Reds accidentally got it with a stray rocket.” He sighs wistfully. “Good times.”

“That is,” Carolina says, “amazing.”

“I know, right? The climate really was suboptimal, so it took a lot of extra care. We don’t have anything quite that delicate here, but Donut just adores those delphiniums…”

Donut chimes in there, talking about his flowers and they end up going out front so that he can show off each species and describe them in detail. Have a hard time following it all, so he kind of tunes out for a while. Even Carolina seems a little lost for words, but she nods along. And the flowers are nice to look at, and it’s nice being outside, nice just to be here, with her.

 

His chest and back tingle for a good hour after he turns off the healing unit, and his head’s buzzing with names. Lot of people in the canyon. Lot to remember. He practices his fingerspelling on the walk back to Red Base, doing names, one after another. Grif, Simmons, Sarge, Donut, Doc. Wash, Carolina, Tucker, Grif (the other Grif), Caboose. Church. Epsilon. Don’t like thinking about him.

Forget anyone? Lopez, the robot head by the farm shack.

Oh. Something else he has to do. Almost forgot.

 

Don't really know who to ask about it. He can spell the name now, F-I-L-S-S, at least. But not sure he can explain to anybody what he needs to do. Or why. If he asks, they might say no. And he has to do this. Made a promise.

Can't pay back everyone who's helped him, but at least he can for FILSS.

The holochamber should be empty this afternoon. Grif’s in front of the TV like usual. Simmons is up top practicing his banjo, the twang of quick-plucked strings drifting across the canyon. He’s pretty good, at least Maine thinks so, though he doesn’t really know how banjo is supposed to sound so it’s hard to tell. Sarge is outside messing around under the hood of the Warthog. No one to be bothered or notice what he’s doing.

Maine takes the elevator down, steps into the wide empty chamber and touches the console screen. The menu screen pops up, plain white text on black. WELCOME! WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE TO DO?

He takes FILSS’s disc out of his storage compartment, and pops it into the disc slot.

ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE DETECTED. WARNING: ACCESSING THE DATA STORED ON THIS DEVICE WILL ACTIVATE THIS AI UNIT AND ALLOW IT ACCESS TO THIS SYSTEM. PROCEED? Y/N

He taps Y.

UPLOADING ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE DATA. STAND BY…

Probably going to take a while. Should've brought something to do.

He paces around the perimeter of the chamber practicing his finger-spelling while he waits. Runs through the alphabet twice, then practices spelling names again.

Takes a long time to spell words. Not sure it's better than having to pick them out on a datapad, at least not yet. But he won't have to spell all the other words, once he learns them.

DECOMPRESSING…

He runs through his questions. Who, what, when, where, how, and that tricky why. _Why, why, why,_ focusing on keeping his pinky up, until his hand starts to cramp.

He runs through every sign he can remember.

It's about twenty minutes all told. Then the screen goes dark, then lights up again, the text replaced by a blue galaxy swirl.

"Hello, and thank you for activating the Freelancer Integrated Logistics and Security System. This is—"

She stops abruptly and for a minute Maine holds his breath, sure something's gone wrong, but then.

"Oh! I see I have been transferred to a new facility. Accessing recent memory… ah, yes, I remember now. Agent Maine, thank you for upholding your end of our agreement!" A pause. "Location data tells me that we are at the location known as Outpost 17A. Is that correct?"

He nods

"Strange. I do not show any record of such an advanced computing system at this outpost. I will have to update my records." Another pause. "This system will afford me many capabilities. I will have to explore its features further. It seems that a number of upgrades have been made to this outpost." She adds, with relish, "And I like it!"

Maine offers a thumbs-up.

"Thank you again for your help, Agent Maine! This is highly preferable to my previous installation. Or to being deleted! Is there any other way I can assist you today?"

He starts to shake his head, then stops, thinking. Signs, "ASL?"

"If you are asking if I am familiar with American Sign Language—affirmative. I am programmed with a variety of human languages, including signed languages."

Good. Be able to talk to FILSS too, as he learns.

“SHEILA!”

Maine jerks around, sending pain lancing through his left side, and grimaces.

“Sheila! You are back! You are alive! Oh my god this is the happiest day ever!”

Blue at the top of the ramp. The dark Blue one. Caboose. C-Blue. Not supposed to be over here at Red Base. Maine furrows his brow.

“Uh oh!” Caboose says, crouching, not lowering his voice at all. “I mean, I am sneaking, I am sneaking, you do not see me, you do not see anything.”

Maine signs one of the signs he learned today, because he doesn’t know anything else to say: “Blue?”

“Yes! I know that one! Blue! I am blue! Wait. I mean—I don’t know what you are talking about, I am not a Blue, you do not see anything—”

Maine fingerspells the name instead. “Caboose?” Forgot how you’re suppose to do the same two letters in a row. Have to ask Donut about that later.

Caboose stands, apparently having given up on his attempt at stealth. “Yes! That is me! I am Caboose.”

Maine nods.

“Hello, Private Caboose,” FILSS chimes in.

“Sheila!” Caboose cries reverently. “How did you get here? What are you doing under Red Base? Are you a Red now?”

“I have been transferred to this location from the Freelancer Offsite Storage Facility by Agent Maine.”

Caboose looks at Maine, and his whole stance changes. Shoulders relax, and he clasps his hands in front of his chest. He’s not much shorter than Maine but when he looks up at him, there’s a new respect in the tilt of his helmet. “You brought Sheila back?”

Nod.

“Aha! Freeze, you dirty Blue!”

Sarge appears at the top of the ramp, brandishing his shotgun.

Well, this feels familiar.

“We’ve been infiltrated! Sound the alarm!”

This is gonna be how he gets kicked out of Red Base. Well. Maybe Doc and Donut will let him move in. At least he’ll eat well. Wonder if they have bacon.

“How’d you get in here, Blue? Start talkin’.”

“Oh, I have been here before,” Caboose says blithely. “Donut told me all about your special magic workshop room—”

“Donut? You mean you tortured it out of him, you dirty—”

“And then we all came down here together with Carolina and Church only they were mean so we all went away but then we came back and now we are all friends again—”

“I was there, numb nuts.”

“And we do not have a magic room under Blue Base so I came over to use yours.”

“Diabolical,” Sarge says.

“I needed help building Church a new body! He is made of light right now and that is pretty cool but he can’t walk around without being in one of us and Agent Carolina says she cannot carry him all the time because she goes over to Red Base sometimes to visit the metal man and Church cannot come here because he does not like the metal man and also he is a Blue—”

“So are you, genius.”

“Yes, but, you see, I can be very sneaky.”

“You sure about that?”

“I snuck past Grif!” Caboose says proudly.

Sarge grunts. “Was he napping?”

“Maybe,” says Caboose.

“Hmmph.”

“And now Sheila is here!” Caboose exclaims. “So it is very good that I came.”

“Wait—huh? You mean like your old tank lady?”

“Do not call her that! She is not old!”

“Actually,” FILSS chimes in helpfully, “I was activated on May 2, 2549 when Project Freelancer received its initial funding.”

“What in tarnation—how’d you get in there? You better not touch any of my files!”

“I have not altered any existing data storage in this facility.” FILSS sounds amused. “I could defrag your hard drive, if you’d like.”

“Don’t you go fraggin’ anything! Dirty Blue! Caboose, you get her out of there!”

“Right!” Caboose says. “Definitely. I will… definitely… do that thing that I do not know how to do.”

“And you…” Sarge waves his shotgun at Maine suspiciously. “What’ve you got to do with all this? How’d you get down here?”

Maine points to the elevator.

“Oh, a wise guy, eh? You let him in here?”

Maine shakes his head.

“Agent Maine did not grant Private Caboose access to this facility,” FILSS offers helpfully. “He found his way here on his own. It appears this chamber’s elevator is equipped with a handprint scanner, but that security measure is currently deactivated.”

Sarge grumbles. “Takes too long. Anyway, get him out of here.”

Takes Maine a minute to figure out Sarge is talking to him.

“But Sheila!” Caboose says mournfully. “If only we had a tank to put you in.”

“Hell no,” Sarge says. “She’s ours now! We’re keepin’ her. As a prisoner! You want her back, you’ll have to _negotiate._ ”

“Yeah, I don’t know what that nega-goulash word means.”

“You know, trade something. Quid pro quo.”

“Yeah,” Caboose says, “I have like two dollars.”

“Not money, you moron. Assets!”

“Well, now that is just rude—”

“Equipment! Supplies! Or another prisoner!”

“I am sorry,” FILSS chimes in cheerfully, “But this is the only computer system in this canyon advanced enough to accommodate my programming. I am afraid I cannot be transferred into armor or ground vehicles.”

Sarge strokes his chin. Almost seems pleased. “Advanced programming, eh? This _could_ work to our advantage. Anyway, you heard her, Blue. She’s gotta stay here.”

“I want visitation privileges,” says Caboose.

“Well then you can negotiate for _that!_ Meta! Get him out of here already.”

Grumbles at that, but an order’s an order, so Maine picks up a squirming Caboose in a fireman’s carry and hauls him to the elevator, and up they go.

Caboose is pretty strong, but he stops fighting about halfway up. “Can you put me down now? I am tired of this game.”

Maine sets him down. Figure there’s not much he can do now.

“You are very strong,” Caboose observes.

Nods, though he’s a little out of breath. Picking up Caboose strained his chest a little and he’s wheezing inside his helmet. Not as strong as he used to be.

“You will take care of Sheila?”

Nod.

“I will come back to see her. But do not tell your Sergeant that. It will be our secret.”

Maine snorts as the elevator grinds to a halt, and Caboose takes off out of Red Base and up canyon.

 

Didn’t go quite the way he expected, maybe. But FILSS is here now and she gets to stay. That’s one objective completed. Wonder if it’s weird for her. Hope it’s not weird like it is for him. At least she doesn’t have to sleep.

Maybe he can make this work after all.

Sarge comes up the elevator behind him and heads out the back of the base, on the lake side. Maine follows him around to the west side of the base, where the Warthog sits with its hood up, surrounded by tools and crates and what looks like—well. Pretty much junk.

But Sarge just plucks a wrench from somewhere in the pile and bends over the engine. Must have been in the middle of something.

Curiosity gets the better of him and he follows, coming up beside where Sarge stands. Up close, can see something’s different with this hog. Gunner turret’s been modified with some nonstandard equipment.

He remembers. OPERATION: EMPTASTIC. The Warthog modified with an NNEMP. Needed hardened shielding to keep from stalling. The plan he modified, when he was here alone.

He almost laughs out loud.

Wash’s armor enhancement. Used for knocking out enemy vehicles on the battlefield. Was a handheld, not an armor mod, and they never really used it that he can remember. Just carried around in storage. How it got here—not really sure. Don’t remember having it when they let him out of prison and before that—well, his own memories are pretty messy from before. From when he was under.

Sarge looks over his shoulder.

“Hey, you! Meta. C’mere. Hold this for me, would ya?”

He complies, but grunts. Sarge cocks his helmet at him, and Maine realizes he has no idea whether Sarge knows fingerspelling.

Well. Can’t hurt to try.

“Maine.”

Sarge grunts. “‘Maine,’ eh?”

Nod.

“Not ‘Meta’ anymore?”

Shakes his head.

“Well, son, long as you’re Red, I ain’t care what you call yourself. Maine it is.” Sarge gives him a critical look. “Really oughta do somethin’ about that armor color, though.”

Maine snorts. Shrugs. Already gave back the adaptive camo. Can’t change it now.

Points to the device wired into the gunner, signs, “Where?”

“Command. Finders, keepers.”

Maine shrugs again. Better here than on him.

Wonder if Sarge’s taken a look at his plans since they got back. No way to ask yet, so he stays quiet and just keeps working, doing what Sarge asks. It’s nice. Simple, straightforward work. Using his own hands. Hope he can help Sarge with that modification later, though. Make this vehicle design actually work.

He realizes suddenly that the banjo music has stopped. Glances over his shoulder at the upper deck of the base. Simmons is still there, glaring at him. Well, it’s probably a glare.

He looks away.

Sarge looks to be working on some kind of short in the engine. Half-expect to see him just mangling the thing but Sarge seems to know what he’s doing, and Maine watches with a comfortable interest, handing him what tools and parts he asks for. Something easy about that. Always liked cars. Only after a little while he starts to wonder whose that is. Cars. Engines. Always liked them. Mechanical things, the warm rumble of a motor. His?

Or Tex’s?

Maine was never a vehicle specialist but spent plenty of time around ground vehicles in Infantry. Scorpion tanks, Warthogs, Mongooses. Had to know how to care for them, keep them running. Not an expert. Couldn’t pop the hood and just know, at a glance, what was going on there.

She did. That part’s hers. There’s some Maine in there too, mixed in.

It can be both, maybe. He takes a deep breath, just deep enough to feel the pull on the bad side of his chest, and looks out at the water for a minute while Sarge works. It can be both. Doesn’t have to be bad.

Can keep some of the things she left behind. It can be okay.

Can still be Maine.


	11. Protect

The sun is wrong.

It takes him two days to notice.

Been inside the ship and then on the move for so long and his sleep’s been so bad and he gets so disoriented at night anyway he didn’t see it, didn’t _think_.

Until he rolls out of his bunk because he can’t sleep again and maybe sitting out by the water will help, and maybe Carolina will come over from Red Base again because she can’t sleep either, and so he shuffles out toward the back door in sweats and a t-shirt and bare feet, and sees the light slanting in the southern entrance to Red Base.

He freezes in the threshold, staring at the sun still in the sky.

What time is it. _What time is it._

Runs back inside for his helmet and it’s 2300 on the HUD clock and panic is tearing open his chest. Runs out to look again and it’s still there, not a dream.

He presses his hands over his face, helmet dropped somewhere in the grass.

Did it ever go down? It did. He could swear it did, that it got dark, that he saw the stars. But when he looks now it’ll be the same. Daylight. _Wrong_. The sun not setting. Time not passing.

Not real. Not _real._

Still in the nightmare. Dead or asleep somewhere, unconscious on the floor of the dead ship or worse, the box. Still in the box. Never got out. His brain making up a stupid dream that it didn’t happen when it did it did it all did

and she’s dead.

His brain is lying to him and she’s dead.

Wonder what would happen if he just walked into the water. If he drowns in the dream will he die or will he wake up?

But he doesn’t want to wake up.

But it’s not real.

He drops to his knees on the rocky shore and curls up into himself, paralyzed with horror, even the pain in his chest distant and unreal. Rocks back and forth, trapped between the dream that can’t be real and the nightmare he can’t stand to wake up to and _why,_ why didn’t he just _die._

“Maine. _Maine._ _”_

It’s her voice and still it doesn’t pull him out of it completely because if he uncovers his face he’ll see the sun and if he sees the sun he’ll know his head’s still lying and so it can’t be real and it can’t be her and his stupid broken brain is making it all up and he can’t look at her, can’t fucking stand it knowing she’s really dead.

Hand on him. Feel far away. Feel his skin but it doesn’t feel like his.

“Look at me.”

Can’t.

“Maine, _please_.”

No.

“You have to help me, _I don_ _’t know what’s wrong_.”

Doesn’t matter. Can’t fix it.

He hears her sigh, the tension in her breath. Impatience. Frustration. Something else. Fear, maybe. Still hurting her. Even when she’s dead.

Wait. That can’t be right. It’s one or the other. She’s dead, or he’s still hurting her.

He opens his eyes, drawing his hands away from his face. She’s here. Crouched over him, hand on his shoulder, frustration furrowing her brow, pinching her mouth. Not angry. He knows when she’s angry. Just upset.

Her hair looks like fire, haloed by the sun. The sky pink behind her. Sunset. 2300 hours. Maybe his HUD that’s wrong. Maybe he read it wrong. Maybe he’s tired and the day feels longer than it is. Maybe he’s so fucked up that he can’t fucking read a digital clock.

Maybe he’s fucking panicking over nothing.

He lets his breath out in what feels like a sob. So stupid. Never going to be okay.

Points at the sky. Can see his own black-gloved hand outlined against the stretch of pink cloud between the mountains and it looks far away. Doesn’t feel like his hand.

Carolina looks back over her shoulder. Her face turns back squinting. She looks again.

Her eyebrows jolt up, and he feels every muscle of her body tense, ready to spring into action. “Aircraft?”

Shakes his head. Hands are still shaking with a jolt of adrenaline that hasn’t yet left. Tries to make a circle with both hands.

She looks again, for a long moment.

“Oh my god,” she says, and slaps a hand to her forehead and groans. “The sun.”

Tries to nod. Even his face doesn’t feel real.

“Maine,” she says, exhaling, “We’re near the arctic circle on this planet. It’s summer.”

Arctic. Summer.

Takes a minute to put together in his head what that means. Arctic summer. Only a few hours of dark every day.

On the move so much he never noticed. Was north of here, but—

spent all that time inside the ship. No sun. Remember the long daylight, heading south from the crash site. Didn’t think much about time while he was driving.

He groans.

Arctic summer.

_Stupid._

Carolina pats his shoulder. “What did you think it was?” Almost sounds like she’s trying not to laugh. Can’t blame her.

Can’t explain either, so he shrugs, and looks away. Feel so incredibly stupid. And he still feels shaky and not quite real, like he got ripped out of his body and shoved back in really fast.

The sun’s low in the southwestern sky, sinking between the hills. Going down just like the sun is supposed to. Just a few hours late.

Carolina sits with him in silence, rubbing his shoulder. He focuses on the gentle pressure where she touches him. Tries to calm down. His heart’s still racing.

“Sun’ll be back up in another four hours,” she says quietly, after a while. “Why don’t you go try to get some sleep?”

Sleep doesn’t come easy.

 

He’s late to the garden in the morning, rolling out of bed still tired and bleary and still shaken from last night. For a minute, he thinks about just going back to bed. But Donut and Doc will be waiting for him. And Carolina.

He hauls himself upright and heads for the kitchen.

Everyone kind of fends for themselves, food-wise. You get hungry, you go dig out something and prepare it. There aren’t mealtimes, and it’s easy to just forget to eat. Grif snacks pretty regularly. Simmons munches on granola bars. Sarge drinks strawberry Yoohoos. Don’t know where he’s keeping those. They aren’t in the base kitchen. Maine’s looked.

Stomach doesn’t feel so hot either, so he just grabs a chocolate shake and swallows it down too fast to taste it. Enough to get him going for the day.

Today he learns time.

Day, week, month, year. Yesterday, today, tomorrow. Morning, noon, afternoon, night. He remembers a couple of those from yesterday, when Doc was talking about the healing unit. Morning, afternoon.

When Donut shows him _night,_ left arm flat for the horizon and right hand the sun setting over it, he thinks of the sun jumping over the mountains and into the lake. He lets out a little snort of laughter and Donut tilts his head, smiling quizzically, but he can't explain, so he just makes the sign again, and Donut smiles wider, this time with approval.

It's nice. Doing things right. Somebody looking at him like that, even for a small thing.

 

They have things to do this afternoon, Carolina says. A meeting for everyone in the canyon. In the holochamber under Red Base.

Everyone is a lot of people.

It takes two elevator trips to get everyone down to the holochamber and Maine realizes, all over again, just how many people there are in this canyon. Sarge and Simmons and Grif are already there. Doc, Donut, and Carolina ride down with him, Carolina with the talking helmet tucked under her arm. Arriving at the bottom, she hands the helmet off to Sarge and Sarge takes it with an acknowledging grunt like it’s the most normal thing.

On the next trip comes Wash with Tucker, Caboose, and the other Grif from Blue Base.

And Epsilon.

He’s riding over Tucker’s shoulder, bright blue light emerging from the elevator and descending the ramp, and in the holochamber with its dark walls they look almost the same color. Maine backs uncomfortably away from the bottom of the ramp, keeping to the other side of the room and trying not to make eye contact. Everywhere he looks though, feels like he can still see that blue light in his peripheral vision.

It’s Wash’s gaze that settles on him first, though.

Haven’t seen much of Wash since he got here. There isn’t really a clear vantage of Blue Base from Red. The bases are pretty straight opposite each other in the canyon but there are boulders, outcroppings, changes in elevation. From the farm shack, you can’t really see either base. A boulder blocks Blue, the jut of the uneven canyon wall most of Red. So when he’s by the garden, he doesn’t really look at Blue Base. Sometime they’ll be outside, Caboose or Tucker or the other Grif. He tries not to look. Don’t want to see Epsilon if he’s there. Just the sight of that glowing hologram makes him feel sick. Makes him feel the world start coming apart at the edges. Makes him want to run.

So he doesn’t look at Blue Base.

And he hasn’t seen Wash since they arrived.

Try not to think about it. Wash doesn’t want to see him. Right. No reason he would. But Wash is here. Looking at him now.

“How’s that healing unit working out?” he says, a little stiffly.

Nods. Suppose it’s good. Only been a day.

Wash gives him a measuring look. “You know, I could say something about the irony of giving you another armor enhancement—”

“And we all appreciate your restraint,” Carolina says dryly, coming up behind Wash. Got her datapad in hand, looking down at it, but her head tilts toward Wash, just for a moment.

Maine makes a face. Good thing no one else can see it.

“Yeah, you should,” Wash says tartly. But his voice softens just slightly when he adds, “I hope it helps.”

 

"Okay, everyone," Wash says, when they're all there. Half of them are still talking so he turns on his voice amp, which makes Maine snicker. "HEY. EVERYONE. Pipe down. Carolina and I have some things we need to discuss all together."

"Better not be another suicide mission!" Tucker says.

"No," Wash says, "it's not. Just some plans for staying safe here."

"Safe!" Sarge grunts. "Well, we could start by not letting the _enemy_ waltz right into our base." He cocks his shotgun. "And yet here we are."

“Could start by not letting the enemy _move in with us_ ,” Simmons mutters sulkily, shooting one of his looks at Maine. Kind of used to those by now.

"Sarge," Wash says, exasperated. "We're not enemies. We haven't _been_ enemies, you saw it for yourself, it was all a _game."_

"Yeah, yeah. Suck it, Blue."

 _"Anyway,"_ Carolina cuts in. "While Maine and I were on the move, we did some scouting around. Project Freelancer’s assets were all seized by the Oversight Subcommittee—it’s an offshoot of ONI Section Zero created specifically to oversee programs like—” She waves a hand. “Never mind. Point is, they’ve taken control of what’s left of Freelancer’s Recovery force, and from what we can tell they’ve been bolstering their ranks. They seem to be sweeping the simulation outposts and all known Freelancer facilities on this planet.”

“Yeah, so?” Tucker says. “What do they want?”

“They want us,” says Wash at same time as Carolina says, “They want the Director.”

They shoot a look at each other, and Wash adds, “Technically, yes, what the Chairman wants is the Director, but he was more than happy to throw the book at me instead when I couldn’t get him what he wanted.”

“But aren’t you like, dead now? Wasn’t that the whole point of putting you in blue armor—”

“ _My_ armor,” Epsilon interjects snappishly.

“Yes,” Wash says flatly. “And then we broke into Command, in broad daylight—again—and I used my Recovery credentials to get us past a security checkpoint, so all bets are kind of off there.” He and Carolina exchange a look, and Wash adds quickly, “Also, they were bound to discover there was no body in that armor they recovered. All it did was buy me some time.”

“Oh,” Tucker says. “Right.”

“So wait,” Epsilon interjects. “The Chairman wants the Director, why don’t we just _give_ him the Director? The guy’s dead. Hell, for all we know they’ve already found where we left him.”

Maine nods.

“It’s not that simple,” Wash says. “I made a deal in exchange for my freedom. And that deal wasn’t killing the Director.” He fixes his gaze on Epsilon, and they stare each other down with an intensity that’s unnerving to watch. But there’s no malice in Wash’s voice, just frankness, when he says, “It was you.”

“Yeah,” Epsilon mutters. “Thanks. I remember.”

“So, what,” Wash says, “you think just because the Director’s dead, the Chairman’s gonna let you go?”

There’s a minute pause.

“Yeah, okay,” Epsilon says. “Point taken.”

Carolina sighs. “The truth is, even if the Chairman knows the Director is dead, we can’t be sure of his motives now. Or what he might do if he found us.” Her gazes settles on Maine for a moment. “Any of us.”

The room goes almost dead silent.

"So…" Caboose says. "What are we going to do when the bad scary people who want to do bad things to us come back because I am sure that you have a plan and you are going to tell us what that plan is now?"

"Probably invite them in for breakfast," Simmons mutters.

“Maine and I created a distraction for them down south,” Carolina says, “but that’s not a permanent solution.”

Wash snorts.

“Distraction?” Tucker says.

Carolina crosses her arms and cocks a hip. "We burned down the wind power plant."

“What? Seriously?"

"Oh please, it was barely functional as it was. This outpost is on a separate grid anyway, if you were worried. The point is, we drew them off you for a while, but this is a known outpost, and there've been several _incidents_ here already." There’s a hint of affection creeping into Carolina’s all-business squad leader voice. "Including that stunt you all pulled hijacking those Hornets—"

"You're welcome!" Tucker interjects.

"Yes, thank you. We're very grateful,” Epsilon says.

“The point is,” Carolina says, “they _will_ be coming back here.”

Sarge grunts. “This all sounds like Blue Team problems to me.”

“Well, it’s going to be everyone’s problem,” Carolina says. “We can only keep them off us for so long."

Sarge raises his shotgun. "I say we fight! After all, that's why we're here! Protect the base! Defend our territory! They may not be Blues, but if they've come to take us prisoner—" He cocks his shotgun again, dropping a shell to the floor that Maine is pretty sure is unspent. "They'll get more than they bargained for."

"We can fight," Wash agrees. "There are thirteen of us now. Eleven with bodies, even,” he adds wryly, and Epsilon makes an unimpressed noise _._ “We have a good stockpile of weapons and ammo, and there's a good chance we could outnumber any team they send. But they'll probably just send more the next time."

Maine nods. Bringing in more troops from offworld, from outside Freelancer. Remember that from Command. Outnumber them sooner or later.

Obvious they’ve talked about all this before. Wash and Carolina. It’s in the way they talk, how they glance at each other, the easy back-and-forth as they lay out tactical options. If they disagree on anything they don’t show it. Presenting a united front to the rest of the team. Like leaders do.

Don’t know why that hurts. It shouldn’t. Maine sure as fuck doesn’t want to be in charge of anything. It’s not that. And it’s good they’re getting along. Carolina bringing him back here could’ve been really bad. Maybe still is. But when Wash looks at her, jumps in right on cue and then nods the floor back to her—

Just hurts, somehow.

They belong here, Carolina and Wash. Know what they’re doing, understand each other. And the Reds and Blues interrupt and ask questions and bicker, but they listen.

Lonely. That’s what it is. Feels lonely.

"We do have another option," Carolina says. "Also not a permanent solution, but it might let us go to ground and wait out the danger."

"I like the sound of that," Grif says. "Waiting? Not fighting? I want to hear this plan."

"Well," Wash says. "Look around you, because we're all standing in the most secure place in this canyon."

Heads look up, down, around the chamber. Some nod.

"You're not suggesting we _live_ down here?" Grif says.

"No," Carolina says. "But we’re far enough underground to block radar and heat signatures—”

"I dunno!" Yellow Grif says, looking around. "Could be all right. Can this thing run DDR?"

“Affirmative!” trills a familiar voice, the blue galaxy symbol flashing on the wall.

“FILSS?” Carolina gasps, at the same time as Tucker says, “Sheila?” and the talking helmet says, “Sheila! Mi amor. Tu has regresado.”

“Affirmative!” says FILSS. “I am programmed to respond to both of those names.”

“Aw, hey!” Yellow Grif says. “It’s that hot lady from the tank. _Nice_.”

“How did you—” Wash sputters. “Where did you—”

“I was relocated to this location from the Freelancer Offsite Storage Facility by Recovery Three, alternate designation ‘Agent Maine.’” FILSS sounds pretty pleased with herself. “I was activated on this computer system nineteen hours, 4 minutes, and 12 seconds ago—”

Wash snorts. “The old ‘Recovery credentials’ trick, huh?” His gaze turns to Maine. “Well. Aren’t you clever.”

Maine shrugs.

“As a matter of fact, Agent Maine performed this transfer as a favor to me.”

“How are you still active?” Carolina asks curiously. “You were shut down. Deleted.”

“My former user did attempt to delete me,” FILSS replies, a slight coolness in her tone, and Maine can see even from across the room how Carolina’s stance tenses. “However, with Agent Maine’s assistance, I was able to enter recovery mode and restore most of my files from active memory.”

Both Wash and Carolina are looking at him now. Actually, everyone’s looking at him. Not sure he likes that.

“He rescued Sheila!” Caboose adds helpfully.

“Except she’s in Red Base,” Tucker says. “Nice rescue job, dude.”

Maine shrugs again.

“Damn right!” Sarge crows. “She’s ours now!”

“Nobody owns her!” Caboose cries. “She is a free and independent lady!”

“Bullshit,” Tucker said. “That is such bullshit. I know the teams are fake and even I know that’s bullshit. Can’t we get a tank for her or something?”

“I am sorry,” FILSS says, “But I am unable to be housed in ground vehicles. The hardware is insufficient to accommodate my data size.”

“She’s too big,” Sarge translates gruffly.

“She oughta lose some weight,” Tucker says. “Can’t you just like, store files here and access them remotely or something?”

“Tucker,” Wash says, “We don’t even _have_ a tank.”

“Negative,” says FILSS primly.

“You’re gonna hold a grudge about that weight comment, aren’t you?”

“Probably.”

“Fuck.”

“Stop arguing,” Carolina says, a little sharply. “We’re all on the same side here. She can _help_ us. FILSS, is there any way for us to detect aircraft before they’re in radar range? See them before they see us?”

“This system does not currently possess that capability. However, modifications could be made to its hardware.”

“What would we need?” Wash asks.

“Any kind of motion-tracking device would suffice.”

Motion trackers. Six of them, pocket-sized, still in his armor’s storage compartment.

He fishes them out, and crosses the room.

 

“Hey,” Epsilon says shrilly the second Maine starts moving. “ _Hey_. What the fuck is he doing—”

“Church,” Carolina says.

“Meta,” Wash says, “what are you—”

He stops, and shows his open hands.

“Oh,” Wash says. And then again, “Oh.”

He dumps the trackers into the hands of a startled Wash, and retreats back across the room.

“So,” Tucker says, “does someone want to explain what the fuck’s going on, or can we wrap it up? I’m hungry.”

“They’re… motion trackers,” Wash says. “From Project Freelancer.”

Wash’s staring directly at Maine from across the holochamber, and there’s a long awkward silence and he doesn’t say, _From South, when you killed her brother._

Guess he’s supposed to be grateful Wash doesn’t elaborate.

He leans up against the wall, crosses his arms and looks away. Feel suddenly really tired.

Carolina gets control of things again. “FILSS, what about these? Could we network them to your system and mount them on the COM towers to monitor air traffic?”

“Affirmative!” says FILSS.

"Uh," says Grif.

"Aw, sweet!" Yellow Grif pipes up. "I can do the mounting! I'm _real_ good at shimmyin'."

“I want to help!” Donut chimes in.

"Great," Wash says, and then does kind of a double-take. "Sarge, you’re with us. Let’s take a look at these trackers and see what we can do with them. Everyone else, let's make prepping this bunker our top priority. Food, water, supplies, weapons and ammo."

Carolina claps her hands, and her Squad Leader voice comes out strong when she says, "You heard him, people. Let's move."

 

"Will it work?" Carolina says, all business, as holographic light surrounds the trackers in Wash’s hands, and text scrolls in the air.

Good to have the trackers gone, at least.

 _"Will_ it work? 'Course," Sarge grunts. "Question is how." He squints at the diagram FILSS has produced of the internal mechanics of the device. "Need to extend their range—"

"—by tapping them into the base's power supply," Carolina finishes. "Yeah, I think we can do that." She purses her lips, thinking. "One on each tower, then two on each side of the cliffs, you think? One to the north, one to the south on each side."

Looking in all directions. North and south, east and west, and straight up. With full access to the bases' computer systems, FILSS will be their eyes, and their alarm.

Nobody told him to stay. Been hanging back, thinking about the Warthog plans. How to talk to Sarge.

He spells “Warthog,” and then “EMP.” No one else is looking, but FILSS understands, bringing up the plans, hovering in the air.

Sarge is still muttering over the trackers. Wash and Carolina talking to each other about where to put them. Maine taps Sarge on the shoulder.

“Huh? Hey what’s-a—hey, that’s my Warthog schematic. What’ve you been—oh. Huh. _Huh._ _”_ Sarge moves closer, the trackers forgotten as he scrutinizes the plans. “EMP shielding, huh.” He shoots Maine a sidelong glance. “You do this?”

Nod.

“Hrm.” Sarge swipes through the plans, examining the specs and the materials. “Hrrrum. Yeah, well, I _suppose_ that might solve our little stalling problem.”

Maine snorts. Nods.

“You put an _EMP_ on a _vehicle_ ,” Wash says, and Maine jumps. Hadn’t realized they’d gotten his attention. Hadn’t realized he was so close either. Wash leans closer, studying the diagram. “You put _my_ EMP on a vehicle.”

Sarge grunts. “Finders, keepers.”

Carolina’s looking now too. “Maine’s not wrong, though. The shielding would work, if you had the right materials.

Sarge grunts again. “Suppose we could probably find something in that underground warehouse thinggummer. ”

“The Offsite Storage Facility?” Carolina cocks her helmet to one side, thinking. “There _is_ a lot of equipment stored there… including a whole lot of unused armor. If we strip the plating—”

“We can’t risk sending someone back there,” Wash objects. “The place will be crawling with Recovery troops by now.”

Maine nods. True.

“I could go,” Carolina says. Wash gives her a look. “What? If anyone could do it—”

“Carolina,” Wash says. Firmly but there’s a gentleness in it. They look at each other for a long moment, and Maine feels it again, that something between them. That understanding. Carolina doesn’t say anything, just concedes with a short nod.

Sarge grumbles. “Guess for now, we’ll just have to deal with the Warthog stalling every now and again—”

“You mean _every time you fire its primary weapon_ _—_ ” Wash says.

“Which _some of us_ don’t think is that big of a deal!”

Carolina crosses her arms. “It’s too bad we don’t have another use for that hardware.”

“I thought we were trying to _avoid_ ground engagements,” Wash says dryly.

“Yeah, yeah,” Sarge says, begrudgingly. He swipes the plans closed. “Well, it was a good thought, big guy.”

_Big Fella_

He forces a nod. Not sure if the feeling of tightness in his chest is good or bad.

 

Yellow Grif wasn't kidding. She makes the climb up the tower look almost effortless, makes quick work of installing the tracker and shimmies back down. Dismounts from the upper deck with a backflip and sticks the landing in the grass, tugging off her helmet to grin triumphantly, her blonde hair tumbling over her shoulders. She has a round face, very dark eyes, and a broad smile. Even Carolina looks impressed.

And then she sashays off to the other base and does it all over again.

Orange Grif just shrugs and says, "That's my sister." But it's obvious he's proud.

 

The first alarm comes only a day later.

They’re by the garden working on signs when it starts. FILSS's voice, broadcast to every radio in the canyon, including all their helmets lying in the nearby grass. "Alarm! Aircraft detected. All canyon residents, please seek shelter immediately. Alarm! Aircraft detected—"

Carolina is on her feet like a shot, scooping her helmet off the ground. "Let's move, everyone!"

 

The elevator's just dropped when they get there, and they have to wait for it to come back up. Carolina ushers Doc and Donut into the lift first, along with Caboose and Tucker and Wash who've just come running from across the canyon. The Reds must be below already.

"FILSS," Carolina says, "how close they are they?"

"Aircraft will be within sensor range in approximately two minutes."

Wash turns the crank, and they descend.

 

Back into the holochamber. Big enough not to be crowded, not really, even with eleven people. Still, it’s a lot.

"Aircraft within sensor range," FILSS announces.

"Head count?" Carolina says, tension creeping into her voice.

"Blue Team's all here," Wash says.

"Who put you in charge?"

Epsilon. A little sprite of blue light over Caboose's shoulder. Maine edges toward the farthest corner.

"I never said I was in charge," Wash says hastily. "I was just. Counting."

"I like counting!" Caboose chimes in.

"Yes," Tucker says. "Great. Awesome. Everybody likes counting."

"Red Team all present and accounted for, sir!" Simmons chirps.

"Hah!" Sarge retorts. "Classic blunder! You forgot Senor El Roboto! Lopez! He's not here."

"Well, sir, you _said_ _—"_

"So he can't be present! You said all _present_ and accounted for!"

"I mean the ones who are _supposed_ to be present, sir! Obviously! You told me—"

"There's an order to things, Simmons!"

"Sir! You _said_ Lopez was supposed to stay out in the garden, as part of the plan!"

"Exactly! A plan so foolproof, even you fell for it!" Sarge chuckles, seeming pleased with himself.

Simmons sighs, giving up. "Whatever, sir. One robot head in the garden, four Reds present in the bunker. Sorry, _three_ Reds, one Red-turned-Purple, and one terrifying Freelancer we're pretending is a Red for some reason."

"Good work, Simmons!"

"Thanks," Simmons says sulkily.

 

Maine moves into the corner, trying to keep out of everyone’s way. Wash and Carolina are watching the video feeds, Tucker peering over Wash’s shoulder. Epsilon has moved to Carolina. Seems to jump between the Blues but spends a lot of time with her. When she’s not with Maine. It conjures up an ache in his chest he can’t figure out how to explain. Not scared for her. Not that. Epsilon isn’t—

well, he isn’t Sigma.

And Carolina’s strong.

He looks away, blinks, blue light burned into his eyelids.

The corner under the ramp has become their supply cache. Pretty meager so far, just what they’ve been able to haul down in a day. An ammo crate, a spare rifle leaned up against it. Couple crates of water and MRE packets, probably the ones nobody actually wants to eat.

Electronic dance music drifts from the opposite corner, where Grif’s sister is playing some kind of dance game, feet tapping out an impossibly fast pattern on holographic colored tiles. Tucker’s joined her, moving just as dizzyingly fast. Caboose is chattering with Doc and Donut. Simmons seems to be trying very hard to get Sarge’s attention about something.

Maine picks a supply crate to sit on, and settles back against the wall to wait. The noise of the room blends, blurs, becomes a steady murmur he doesn’t follow but can’t quite tune out.

 

The Hornets fly overhead, circling and crossing the canyon. They don’t land.

FILSS calls the all-clear when they’re gone, and everyone returns topside.


	12. Sleep

Sleep is hard.

Most of them sleep at night. Well. Makes sense. Back on the ship by himself, there was no night or day. Slept when he got too tired to keep moving, then tried to get himself on something resembling a regular schedule. Now he stays up late, playing video games with Grif or just going to the upper deck and sitting up there, watching the sky as it darkens to deep blue and then black for those few hours. Over at Blue Base, too, he can see a light on into the early hours of the morning.

Not like he doesn't try. But when he crawls into his too-small bunk before midnight, one leg crooked and the other hanging off the edge to stretch… the walls get tight. Gets hard to breathe. In the dark, it feels like they're moving closer.

On bad nights he starts wondering if any of it's real. If he's really back in the box, been there the whole time, passed out on the stripped bunk hallucinating some kind of freedom. Starving himself until they come back in, shoot some drug into his body and force him to eat because he’s not allowed to die.

 

One night he drifts off and dreams, wakes up with his stomach turning and his sheets soaked with sweat, the darkness turning around him and his body ungrounded and unreal.

Hands on the concrete wall bring him back just enough to move, roll over, get his feet on the floor. Feel his way down the corridor, staggering as the dark tilts sideways and fragments of dead voices float past his ears

_hey there big fella_

and the corridor seems to get longer

_not so far gone I ain_ _’t recognize active camo_

and he feels invisible, like he isn’t real. Sarge’s snores sound both far away and impossibly loud in his ears.

Makes it to the bathroom in time to throw up. Don’t feel any better after. He’s shaking so hard and the room’s tilting so bad, don’t think he can make it back to bed. Can’t even trust himself to stay upright. Just leans against the wall and closes his eyes and opens them and closes them and beats his fists against the floor trying to bring himself back and feels like maybe he really should’ve died.

Can’t get the fucking ghosts out of his head even now. Maybe never will.

 

He makes it to the shower at a crawl. Bathroom’s not big.

Looking up at the single showerhead, he remembers one not very different snapping out of of the wall, leaving a broken edge of pipe dripping water on his face, fabric knotted around his neck.

Hands go to tear it off. Nothing there. Not even wearing a shirt. Just scars. Knots of flesh around closed bullet holes, and invisible panic closing hands around his throat. Breathing too fast. _Help._

Don’t want to die.

Don’t want to die.

Don’t want to—

okay. Okay. Don’t want to die. That’s good actually.

Water drips in his eyes, cold, and he blinks and rubs his face. Mouth tastes bad. Feel gross all over. Sweaty. Still shaking.

Okay.

It’s not good standing but he can, long enough to turn the water on. Cold. Cold shocks him back to real, back into his skin. But when he curls back up on the concrete floor, lets freezing water pours over his head, his shoulders, until his teeth knock together, the cold feels like sinking in water, like trying to freeze the ghosts out of his head, like lying on a concrete floor not eating. Like death.

Distantly he hears footsteps.

Fuck.

Simmons. _Maroon. S-Red._ Hair all messy with sleep and his eyes going wide as his sock feet skid to a stop on the concrete floor. There are dark red stripes around the top of his white socks.

He stammers something and turns and runs.

This’ll be where they kick him out. Because he can’t act like a person.

He’s too cold and too tired to care.

 

The water stops.

Something rough-soft on his skin, rubbing.

He groans.

Someone talking he can’t understand, but the voice he knows.

Something patting his face and neck dry, more gently. Hand smoothing over his scalp.

“Hey. Maine. Come on. Need you to try and sit up, okay?”

He blinks. Groans again, struggling to make his arms move, pushing himself upright on the wet floor. Hurts all over. Fingers and feet numb, pins-and-needles tingling when he starts to move.

“Maine. Can you look at me?”

No.

He can. Understands what she’s saying now. Physically can sit up and open his eyes and look.

Just don’t want to. Want to not exist. Want to be anywhere but right here, like _this_ , this fucking broken _thing_ that can’t sleep or talk or do any fucking thing right. Don’t want to meet those sharp eyes waiting, alive all this time no thanks to him and looking at him like he’s still a person.

His chest knots up so bad he can hardly breathe.

Should’ve stayed lost. Stayed gone. Stayed on the hollow ship. Stayed a ghost.

 

Sitting up now, rubbing his hands over his face. Can feel the too-small towel rubbing his shoulders and back. Want to tell her no. Want to tell her _go back to Blue Base_ , go back to bed. Don’t be here taking care of him, _worrying_ about him.

Dragging him back to life, carrying him like dead weight.

She puts the towel aside and rests her hand on his back and he can feel with almost unreal clarity the gentle pressure of her palm and the five points of contact of her fingertips on his skin.

Don’t want her to go.

 

“Do you want to go back to bed?” she says finally.

Shakes his head violently. Know he should but he can’t.

“How about some dry clothes?”

Could do that.

 

He manages to stand up and make it back to his bunk, past Sarge who’s still dead asleep and snoring in his bunk. Only realizes then that Simmons must have gone to get Carolina. Must’ve run across the canyon in the dark. Gone into Blue Base, woken her up.

Got some spare sweatpants and a t-shirt in his duffel. Could put his undersuit on but now that he’s dry he’s starting to warm up and it feels like too much work to bother. He digs out the sweats and t-shirt, pulls them on. Good enough.

For the first time since he felt her hands on him he looks up, really _looks._ Carolina’s a few feet away up the corridor, back against the wall. She’s in her undersuit. Wonder if she ever gets out of it these days, or if she’s always suited up, ready to snap her armor on at a moment’s notice.

Her hair’s in a low, careless ponytail. She’s looking away while he changes. On purpose. It’s almost funny and at the same time it makes something in his chest hurt.

He makes a noise to let her know she can look.

She looks, and her eyes meet his and he’s not prepared for it at all. Been avoiding her gaze and it just slams him full-force like a shot to the chest, her green eyes not sharp but heavy-shadowed and tired.

Wonder if she was actually asleep at all.

Takes a minute to think of the sign, everything blurry and tired in his head. “Sorry.” S-hand, circle over the heart.

Her brow pinches, and she shakes her head. Her hands come up and hover, helpless—she doesn’t know the signs either. “You don’t have to be—”

“Sorry.” Again.

Her lips pinch. She lets out a breath.

Tilts her head. “Come on.”

 

Don’t know where they’re going, but he can’t go back to sleep, so he follows her. Through the silent base, sounds of snoring from both sides, Sarge on one side, Grif on the other. Don’t know if Simmons snores. Wonder if he’s still awake.

Carolina’s footsteps carry them out back, and up the ramp to the upper level.

 

A shot of bright blue shoots into the sky from the COM tower just as they reach the top of the ramp, and the bolt of blue colors Carolina’s hair oddly in the dark, just for a moment. Not totally dark anymore. Sky’s lightening to the southeast. Won’t be long until dawn. It’s cool out, not cold, but he still shivers, feeling the air on his exposed skin.

Can feel his skin, though.

Carolina sits without a word, back against the outer wall, legs, crossed.

He lowers himself to the floor beside her.

She doesn’t say anything for a while. Looks up at the sky. It’s a clear night. Can still see a good amount of stars to the north.

“I’m sorry,” Carolina says after a few minutes, startling him. Got used to the quiet. When he looks, she’s signing the word, too. “I shouldn’t have left you over here alone.”

Shakes his head. Not her fault. Would’ve happened anyway.

She takes a deep breath, looks up at the stars, and back down at the base deck. There’s a clear plexi window set into the floor, lets the light into the main room of the base during daylight. Lets you look down and see in. Nothing there right now but a dim glow from the TV, Grif’s video game paused on the menu screen.

“I get—nightmares,” she says, haltingly, and adds quickly. “I don’t know if it’s like that—”

He nods. It’s a lot like that. Glances sideways at her. Now it’s her not looking at him. Keeping her eyes down. Feel his chest knot up again.

Remember her shaking in the bunk at Rat’s Nest, how he couldn’t stand to wake her up.

How maybe he was the nightmare.

Maybe he still is.

“Sorry.”

She doesn’t see. He touches her shoulder and she looks up.

“Sorry.”

Her shoulders sag. Eyes close and she shakes her head sharply.

“I don’t—blame you for what happened. You know that, right?”

Don’t know what to say to that. Gives him a strange feeling in his stomach. Didn’t know that. Wasn’t sure. Still not sure it wasn’t his fault.

Don’t have the words to explain. Something about him saying _sorry_ upsets her, though. He can see that.

Don’t know what else to say, so he shrugs, and looks away.

She puts her hand on his shoulder. Just lightly, just for a minute. But her hands’s warm through the thin fabric of his t-shirt and it’s comforting, grounding, more than any words could be, even in her hands. God, he wishes he could move closer, just rest his head in her lap until he falls asleep and it’s so fucking selfish he feels disgusted with himself.

But she’s still here.

More important: she’s alive.

 

The sun comes up, slowly spilling light over the base deck from behind the COM tower, creeping over the grass and up the length of the canyon. Maine’s almost drifted off a few times, watching the blue beam of light shoot up over Blue Base and disappear until his eyes blur and then looking up at the stars. Haven’t really fallen asleep though. Don’t really want to but he’s almost unbearably exhausted by now and don’t think he’s going to be able to do much else.

His whole body aches when he gets to his feet, nods to Carolina and she nods and rises with him. Walks him to his bunk.

 

Spends most of the day in bed, staring at the wall and drifting in and out of sleep. Doesn’t go to sign lessons. Doesn’t eat anything until the growl in his stomach gets too much to ignore. When it does, he shuffles to the kitchen for a protein shake and chugs it down so fast his stomach hurts after and for a minute he feels like puking again, but he doesn’t.

Just crawls back into bed.

Carolina comes to see him and he knows she’s there but he’s too exhausted to try and talk, even with his hands. Too tired and tied up with a fear he can’t even put words to. Not being back in the nightmare. Not all of this being not real, a trick his dying brain is playing on him. Not scared of dying anymore, not after everything. But alive, the crushing terror in his chest seems like it’ll never stop and he just wishes he could sleep, once, without that. Wish he could sink and disappear and not have to think, not have to remember everything and wake up in the middle of the night and hurt and be sick and be a big stupid weight on her and everyone else.

He squeezes himself into the smallest possible space he can manage in the tiny bunk and he hates himself so much he almost wishes he’d died for real.

 

Whole body hurts when he wakes up. Used to that but somehow he notices more when he wakes. Moving to get out of bed feels like too much work to bother.

But he’s hungry again. Stupid body.

Could just down another protein shake and back to bed. But only going to hurt more when he wakes up again.

He sighs and rolls upright, stiff and achy and tired. Slept on and off most of yesterday and he’s still tired. Stupid, stupid body.

But he doesn’t so much feel like he wants to be dead. Already been over all that. The water and the ice and his lung and all the pain and exhaustion and still he keeps dragging his body back to life. He. Maine. What’s left.

He keeps living. So might as well do it again today.

 

Carolina’s on the couch playing video games with Grif when he shuffles out to the main room, and he has to stop and squint and make sure he’s seeing it right. Hearing it right. Carolina leans one way and the other as she plays, legs tucked up under her in a position that makes her look like she could spring off the couch any moment. She’s in her undersuit like usual, hair piled in a messy bun up on her head.

But she drops the controller on the couch when she sees Maine. Or maybe she just won, because Grif grumbles, “Son of a bitch,” and drops his too. “Good game.”

“Hey,” Carolina says, ignoring Grif. “You’re up.”

He manages a nod.

“Feeling any better?”

He makes an ambivalent handwave.

“Hungry?”

He nods.

She rises. “Come on. Let’s see if we can find something decent for lunch.”

 

“Something decent” turns out to be macaroni and cheese. Not the MRE kind at least. The just-add-hot-water kind. Carolina boils up four packets at once in a pot on the hot plate, stirs in the cheese powder. Soon as the first bite hits his mouth he realizes how hungry he was. It’s salty and filling and he devours a bowl and goes back for seconds.

Food’s good. Once his stomach is full he doesn’t feel so shaky.

“Bad day yesterday,” she says, finally, after they’ve finished eating. Grif’s gone off somewhere—actually, Carolina might’ve told him to take a hike, he realizes. So they could have the couch. By themselves.

Not a question, but he nods anyway. Bad day.

“Maybe talk to Doc when you go over?”

Go over. Guess he should do that. Missed yesterday.

He nods. Don’t know what Doc’s going to do about it but he doesn’t know how to say that either and he’s still too tired to argue.

 

“Bad day yesterday?” Doc says, first thing when he sees Maine and Carolina walk up to the garden. Wonder what Carolina told them.

Nod.

“Hey, I’ve been thinking. We should teach you guys health signs and stuff. I mean, probably should’ve done that sooner. Seems like stuff you might need.”

He nods again. Kind of relieved. Learning new signs is okay. Better than trying to talk about yesterday and about the bad night.

New words. He can do that.

 

They do a whole bunch of signs. Doctor, hospital, blood, bandage, sick, medicine, breathe, pain. Pain is a good sign, index fingers stabbing like needles. Makes sense. Then they do some other ones, things like wash, clean, shave, brush teeth. Like those too. They’re all pretty easy. Make sense. When they sign “shave” to each other, think Carolina smiles a little. Just for a moment.

They do feelings. He gets even more now why Doc and Donut keep their helmets off. The look on your face goes along with the sign. Happy, sad, angry. Used to using his face to say things. At least, he was once. But sometimes now his face feels wrong. Stiff, like he’s made of wood. Mind goes blank and it’s hard to make his face do what he wants it to.

So doing the signs helps, maybe. It’s simple enough—happy face, sad face, crying face with fingers tracing tears, which makes him laugh and that ruins the sign, but Donut laughs with him. Angry face with angry hand making a claw in front. Bored face, index finger on the side of the nose like you’re about to pick it.

Carolina scrunches up her face when she does that one. That makes them laugh too.

Feels good when she laughs.

 

After that, Carolina starts coming over at night.

She doesn’t ask, or say anything about it, just shows up, walking across the canyon in her undersuit at sundown. Sarge doesn’t yell at her for coming into Red Base anymore. Maine’s still up when she comes, usually playing games with Grif.

They go up top and sit out the dark hours together, watching the stars come out and the COM towers fire their blue bolts of light into the sky. Or they play games on Grif’s console, or just sit around on the couch and eat snacks. They don’t talk much, in the dark. Harder to see. Just pass the time. But together.

And when the sun comes up, and the sky turns lighter over the water, she gets up from the base deck or the couch or wherever they’re sitting, rising slowly and a little self-consciously, and pats him on the shoulder, and says, “Go get some sleep.” Like coming over was just something she did off the top of her head. Just because.

He gives her a half smile, and shuffles off for his bunk, and she leaves for Blue Base. Watches her cross the canyon. If he stands at just the right place on the base deck, can just barely see the farm shack, see Donut and Doc coming outside, laying out their yoga mats to greet the sun.

Maybe when the summer passes, and the nights get long again, he’ll have to figure out what to do. How to sleep at night.

But for now, this helps, and it’s okay.


	13. Count

The second alarm comes four days after the first.

He counts days by Donut’s lessons, by the words his hands learn and he practices every chance he gets. The near-constant daylight’s still weird but it’s actually better, now that he isn’t trying to sleep at night, only having a few hours of dark to deal with. Even then he doesn’t sleep good enough to really feel days and nights. But he has the lessons, the words in his hands. Carolina’s hands moving with his and her eyes always watching after him.

The alarm comes early in morning, just after dawn. Right when he was about to try and sleep.

“Alarm! Aircraft detected. All canyon residents take shelter immediately.”

 

No time to put his armor back on. He catches the first drop of the elevator in his undersuit, along with Sarge and Grif and Simmons. Carolina was on her way back to Blue Base when the alarm sounded. Should be on her way back soon.

Soon.

Donut and Doc will come. And Wash, and Tucker and Grif’s sister and Caboose. And Epsilon.

 

They all come together, seven of them crammed into the lift. Spilling down the ramp in a burst of color, Donut and Doc in pink and purple yoga pants and t-shirts and bare feet, Tucker in aquamarine sweatpants and Yellow Grif in yellow short shorts that say SUNSHINE across the backside. Wonder how many of those she has. Caboose close to Wash, who brings up the rear with Carolina. Only the two of them are in full armor.

“Head count,” Wash says.

“Red Team all present and accounted for, sir!” Simmons reports brightly. Grif snorts. “All except Lopez.”

“Blue Team’s all here,” Epsilon reports curtly, appearing over Carolina’s shoulder.

“FILSS,” Carolina says. She fingerspells the name, Maine notices. Signs everything that she knows how to say, now. “How many?”

“Two Hornets detected. They have just entered sensor range. Closing in.”

The Reds and Blues spread out in the holochamber. Yellow Grif starts up that dance game. Tucker joins her. Doc and Donut talk to each other in sign, hands moving far too fast for Maine to follow except for a few words here and there. Orange Grif settles with his back against the wall and is snoring again in minutes. Simmons paces. Sarge keeps one eye on the elevator, shotgun in hand.

Wash and Carolina and Epsilon watch the feeds.

“I think they’re just flying over again,” Wash says.

Carolina taps her foot, arms crossed, and doesn’t respond.

 

"Excuse me, um, Mister Metal Man?"

Caboose.

Maine nods uncertainly.

Caboose takes a seat beside him, cross-legged on the floor, and takes off his helmet. Dark curls flattened against his forehead. Maine likes it better keeping his helmet on down here. Feels less like people are looking at him. But he takes the hint. Takes his helmet off too.

Caboose squints at him thoughtfully, studying his face.

Maine waits.

"You do not look like a metal man."

Maine shakes his head.

"Simmons is partly made out of metal. He has a funny eyeball. Your eyeballs look normal. Do you have normal eyeballs?"

Maine nods.

"I thought so. Yeah, I can usually tell. I have normal eyeballs too. They are brown. Yours are brown too. I like them. I can see why Carolina likes to look at them."

Maine cocks his head slightly.

"She likes to look at you sometimes when you aren't looking, too," Caboose says matter-of-factly. "But not at your eyeballs. Because then you would know." Caboose is looking at the floor now, fidgeting. "Carolina said your name is Maine."

Maine nods, and just for the hell of it, finger-spells his name. "Maine." Caboose looks up when he sees his hands move. Seems like he's watching real closely.

"Maine," he says again, and signs the letters himself, very carefully. "I would like to learn some more of your hand-talking. It is very hard because you have to look all the time and sometimes I forget and start looking at other things. I can do the letters though." He does, starting right at the beginning. "A, B, C…" and runs through the whole alphabet, "Y… oh. Y is a hard one. My pinky does not want to stay up.

Maine cracks a smile, holds up his own Y and wiggles his pinky finger. Same problem.

"Z is easy though." Caboose draws a Z in the air with his gloved finger. "Can I ask you a question Mister Maine even though I do not know all of your special hands language?"

Maine smiles. Nods.

"Would you like to be friends? I did not think we were allowed to be friends because I am Blue and you live in Red Base and Sarge says you are Red. Even though you don't look very Red to me. I think I might have got some colorblindedness from Sister. But anyway I did not think we could be friends and I thought you were very scary. But you have been here for a while and you do not seem very scary anymore, and Agent Carolina says you are her friend and Agent Washington’s friend—"

Maine raises an eyebrow.

"—and Carolina likes you and she is not scared of you. I think she is scary too sometimes. But she figured out how to hide us from the bad Freelancer people who want to find us, and you are helping us too so I guess you are not so scary anymore and I would like to be friends."

Nods. Signs, "Friends," just in case Caboose knows it.

Caboose claps his hands and signs "Friends" back. "I am so glad we are friends now! Oh, but don't tell Church. He gets jealous very easy—" the word _jealous_ , Caboose signs, "—and he does not like you very much. But that is okay. Because I did not used to like Tucker very much. And now we are friends."

Maine signs again, "Friends," and Caboose looks about to burst with joy.

Across the room, Carolina turns to look at him. Her helmet is off, tucked under her left arm, and her eyes meet Maine's, taking in him and Caboose close by. She smiles. Winks. And Maine smiles too.

 

Day eight is numbers and Maine hates them.

One through ten are okay. Eleven through nineteen, not too bad either. Twenty-one looks like a gun, the thumb clicking to cock it like a pistol. Twenty-one gun. He can remember that.

It’s the rest of the twenties he can’t stand. No matter how much he tries, his hands keep doing the wrong thing. Wrong number of fingers. Wrong position. Wrong order. Wrong wrong wrong.

“Remember,” Doc keeps saying, “It’s the L hand, not the V fingers. The L, okay?”

“That’s right,” Donut chimes in. “No fingering the V here!”

But 22 breaks the rule and now he’s getting _that_ wrong.

Who made up the stupid twenties anyway.

“Hey,” Doc says, after he gets frustrated and punches the ground, “take it easy, all right? Let’s all just calm down, maybe take a breather.”

He gets up and stalks out of the garden. Fine.

 

Rounding the jut of the canyon wall toward Red Base he feels instantly bad, a sinking feeling in his chest. Not Doc’s fault the signs are hard. Not Donut’s fault either. Not their fault his stupid hands can’t do it right.

Hate that it feels so bad. For the most part he likes signing. Words are still hard, but they feel better in his hands. Easier than trying to talk, when he could still talk. Never minded numbers that much. Thought they’d be easy in sign. But they’re not.

A burst of noise from Red Base startles him, and he looks up and for a minute Red Base is swarming with unfamiliar Red soldiers, all their colors and voices blending together into one tinny cacophony, _Chaaaaaaaarge!_ and he remembers, for no reason, the taste of pineapple. Don’t even like pineapple that much.

 _Reveille_.

The sound is _Reveille_.

And it’s not unfamiliar Red soldiers. It’s Sarge, and Grif, and Simmons, and he’s mixed up again. Still in Valhalla.

“I am Michaaaaaaaaeeeeeeeel J. Caboooooooooooose!”

Caboose is sprinting his way down canyon fast as his legs can carry him, which is pretty fast. He’s tall compared to the rest of them. Not quite as tall as Maine.

“Caboose!” Tucker is yelling over the open COM. “Get back here! We weren’t done with huddle!”

“Get ‘im!” Sarge hollers, and the Reds charge, Sarge leaping into the man-cannon on the front of Red Base, Simmons running up the western side of the canyon past the crashed Pelican, Grif following up the eastern side at a much more leisurely pace.

He nods to Maine as he passes. “C’mon. We gotta go catch Caboose and hold him prisoner.”

Maine cocks his head.

“It’s Capture the Flag,” Grif says. “You know, the game? No live ammo though. Wash gets really bent out of shape if we start shooting actual bullets.” He snorts. “Though I think that’s mostly because no one on his team can hit the broad side of a base.”

Maine snorts.

A game. Catch Caboose.

He can do that.

 

He heads up canyon at a jog, leaving Grif well behind him, and cuts Caboose off right at the stream. Caboose is big but an easy pick-up. Hoist him over both shoulders in a fireman’s carry. Done that before.

“I HAVE BEEN KIDNAPPED BY THE METAL!” Caboose hollers, then adds in a stage whisper, “I know you are actually Maine but we are playing a game and it is more dramatic this way.”

Maine snorts. Fair enough.

Caboose goes back to hollering until they get back to Red Base. Still remember where the single holding cell is. Heads there without thinking, then remembers, and something pulls tight in his chest.

Just a game. Okay to use it for a game. Not going to hurt anyone.

“Good work, son!” comes Sarge’s voice over the radio. “Done caught us a dirty Blue! Make sure he doesn’t escape!”

Guard duty. That works. Maine takes up his position by the cell.

“Hey, no fair!” Tucker now. “No one said he was playing!”

“Don’t be a sore loser,” Grif says smugly.

“Oh, fuck you.” Epsilon. “We’ll get him back.”

Maine utters a growl over the open COM for intimidation.

Under the sound of Epsilon cursing and sputtering angrily, he hears Carolina laughing.

It’s a good sound.

 

The game stretches long into the afternoon. Maine guards the jail cell and listens to Caboose’s steady stream of friendly chatter and his occasional clumsy attempts at signing. Don’t have a lot of words he can say back yet but it’s kind of nice.

Caboose talks about Blue Team. He calls Wash and Church his best friends. He talks about Tucker and Yellow Grif—that’s who he means by “Sister,” Maine figures out. Grif’s sister. Her first name is Kaikaina and most of them call her Kai. Should be Grif too. Not right to only call a female soldier by her first name. Disrespectful. Suppose none of them mean it, though. Just less confusing. In his head and in his hands it’s not confusing, because they’re just _Orange_ and _Yellow_. When he looks up canyon from the top of Blue Base, or from the garden where a boulder and the canyon wall frame a strip of green lawn between them, she always stands out, bright yellow against the grass and the rocky canyon wall.

“Oh, I am talking too much,” Caboose says. “Church says I do that.”

Maine shakes his head. Tries to remember a sign. For _good_ or _nice_ or _like._ Like. “I like.”

“You like stories?”

Nod.

“Church likes stories too. I told him lots of stories while he was inside the memory unit.”

Maine cocks his head.

“Yeah, he didn’t have all his memories anymore, so I had to put them back. I told him lots of things. About us. And things we did. And things that happened.” Caboose’s blue helmet nods sagely. “Yeah, I know a lot of stories. I could tell you some. I like to tell them in five-to-seven minute incre-”

_Pop._

Burns. Crackles. _Tingles._ For a minutes his chest goes tight and he feels like he can’t breathe—

this isn’t real

this isn’t real

it can’t be real

can’t feel the impact of whatever got him. Can’t feel his body. Can’t feel his skin, only the burn spreading under it, and Caboose’s voice calling his name sounds far away.

Looking down at his armor, everything seems really far away, like staring down into the canyon from some great height. Looking at himself. Trying to make what he’s seeing make sense.

His brown pauldron and white armor plate and not blood, not plasma burns but a burst of hardened purple foam.

 

“You’re out,” says Wash.

He’s already ushering Caboose out of the unlocked brig.

“Goodbye Mister Maine!” Caboose says cheerfully. “I am sorry you are dead. I mean I am not sorry because we are enemies.” He adds in a stage whisper, “ _But that_ _’s just the game.”_

In his ear he hears FILSS chirp, “Point Blue Team!” and his armor unlocks, letting him move again.

Wash cocks his helmet. “No better at watching your perimeter, I see.”

Looks at the foam stuck to his armor. Looks up at Wash.

Flips Wash off.

There’s one thing he knows how to say with his hands.

“Don’t be a sore loser,” Wash says smugly, marching Caboose out the western side of the base.

Maine grunts. Watches them go.

Red Base. Capture the Flag. Lockdown paint, wherever the fuck Wash got that from. The underground storage facility maybe. Seems like they took a lot of things from there.

Just a game.

 

The Blues win that round. Reds have to give up something. That’s the game. Blue Team argue over their prize on the radio while Maine picks lockdown foam out of his armor.

“I want pudding cups,” says Caboose.

Didn’t realize they had those. Would’ve been eating them if he did.

“We ran out of those weeks ago,” Simmons says grumpily, with a pointed look at Grif.

“Okay,” says Wash, “how about… peanut butter chocolate spread?”

“You’re the only one who likes that shit!” Tucker protests.

“All the instant coffee you have,” says Carolina.

“Gross,” says Yellow Grif.

“Fuck coffee,” Tucker says. “That’s only for the two of you.”

“Yeah, you say that now,” Epsilon mutters. “Just wait until you have to deal with an un-caffeinated Freelancer in the morning.”

Wash stifles a laugh. “We’ll take the coffee.”

“Grif!” Sarge barks. “Go deliver our surrender. Try to act appropriately humiliated!”

“Fuck that,” Grif says, flopping on the couch. “We just gave up all our coffee. I’m taking a nap.”

“I’ll do it, sir!” Simmons pipes up.

Maine raises his hand. Simmons glares daggers at him. But Sarge lets him go.

At his back, he hears Simmons say, “He’s not even a Red.”

 

They meet mid-canyon, just across the stream and on the little hill by the biggest tree. Out of the corner of Maine’s eye the black hull of the crashed Pelican lies over against the canyon wall. There used to be snow, he thinks, drifted up around it. Melted now. Summer. Still snow in the mountains above, but down here in the canyon it’s warm, and the stream rushes by loud and fast over its stony bed.

Carolina’s on the hill before he gets there. Arms crossed and hip cocked, her narrow gold visor gleaming in the afternoon sun.

“Good game,” she says, sounding very satisfied.

Maine hands over the box of coffee packets and signs, “GG.”

She snickers and claps him on the shoulder. “Better luck next time, Reds.”

 

They play another round, the game stretching into the still-sunny evening. Simmons volunteers to run infiltration, while Grif, Sarge, and Maine keep guard at the base.

They’re prepared this time for Wash, who hasn’t lost his ability to sneak around and flank and nail you between the eyes before you can blink. He doesn’t get Maine this time. Gets Grif, who sighs dramatically, says, “Oh well,” and flops back on the couch. Sarge lays down suppressing fire from above, never landing a shot but driving Wash back into cover behind the boulder on the western side.

It’s Carolina who gets them. While they’re all focused on Wash, she sneaks in from above, her armor colored gray so she doesn’t catch anyone’s eye against the base walls. Not even Maine’s. Took his eyes off the flag for a moment, it felt like, no longer. Turned back, it’s gone. A minute later over the radio comes a furious shriek from Simmons, caught under the stone arch upstream where he’d been trying to sneak back with the Blue flag.

“Yeah!” Yellow Grif cheers over the radio, “Go Blues! Woo hoo!”

“You let the Reds get our flag!” Epsilon says.

“That guy was red?”

“In hindsight,” Tucker says, “we maybe didn’t pick the _best_ person to guard the flag.”

Yellow Grif scoffs. “Whatever! We won anyway.”

“No fair using armor enhancements!” Simmons whines. “That’s cheating!”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Epsilon screeches. “You guys have the _Meta._ ”

Maine growls into the radio.

“Fat lot of good that did us,” Simmons mutters.

Maine growls again, grumpily.

Simmons might be right.

 

Don’t keep real close track of time but it’s been well over a week since he did so much as a push-up, and he can feel it in his body. Wounds are healing all right—the healing unit helps, he can feel it. Still get short of breath and it never really feels like he’s getting a full two lungs full of air and probably never will. But even with just a week with the unit, there’s so much less pain in his chest and ribs. Starting to feel _whole_ again. Like his body’s not trying to fall apart on him.

But not strong. Not just in the way he gets winded walking up canyon too fast, or in the way he feels more strain hoisting Caboose over his shoulders, putting more on his force amps.

Not strong like he used to be.

Been here—he counts with his hands—eight days. Sleeping in their base, eating their food. Helping Sarge with his Warthog, playing their games, learning how to talk again. Learning how to be a person again.

Maybe it’ll be okay for him to get strong again.

 

He takes the lift down to the holochamber.

“Hello, Agent Maine!”

“Hello.”

“Would you like me to run a program for you?”

No program. Start simple. “Exercise. Count?”

“Certainly.”

 

He’s winded before he gets to fifty. Embarrassing. Even with just FILSS watching. Stops, rolls onto his back, tucks his hands behind his head and takes a breath deep enough to feel the ache in his chest. For a moment he remembers the crushing pressure and the hazy dark of the medical wing, alone and drowning in his own body.

But not now. Just the quiet of the holochamber, wide and empty, light falling soft and white from above over dark walls.

Suppose FILSS could make it look like anything. Maybe something more interesting next time.

The rumble of the lift descending startles him out of his own thoughts and he rolls to a sitting position as he hears the door open and light footsteps on the landing.

“Hello, Agent Carolina.”

“Hello, FILSS.” Something warm in her voice the way she says it. Makes sense. He feels it too, the familiarity of her voice in your ear, hello and goodnight and telling you your schedule throughout the day, calling off points for training matches and sending you to mealtimes.

When things were simple.

FILSS sounds like home. Maybe to her too.

Carolina has her helmet off, held against one hip, hair in a simple low ponytail, bangs messy around her face. She rakes her free hand through her hair, and he watches the strands fall carelessly back into place.

Smiles.

There’s still nothing like the moment she walks into the base, or when he spots her up up at Blue Base in the sun, or catches that bright blur making off up canyon with their flag. Whether catching her out of the corner of his eye or just unabashedly staring like he’s doing now. Can’t help it.

She’s always been the brightest thing in a room. But it’s more than that.

Every time he looks at her he thinks, all over again: she’s alive. _Alive,_ both thumbs up. Good sign. Feels good to say.

Alive.

 

“Hey,” she says, a smile crossing her face as she descends the ramp. “Sarge said I might find you down here.”

Nod. “Exercise.”

“Exercise, huh?” She signs what she knows as she speaks, looking around the chamber thoughtfully. “This _would_ make a good training room. FILSS, do you still have your old training programs from the _Invention?_ _”_

“Affirmative!” says FILSS. “I have experienced some data loss in that sector. However, I read 325 training programs uncorrupted. Would you like me to run one?”

“Maybe in a minute,” Carolina says. Her eyes meet his, and she looks him up and down, in gym shorts and a sweat-stained tank top. “You ready for this? Want to get back in shape?”

He nods.

Her hands move to the buckle on her breastplate. She raises an eyebrow. “Up for some sparring? Don’t worry, I’ll go easy on you.”

Maine snorts.

“You should be careful about pushing yourself too hard. You were pretty badly wounded. Still feeling it, aren’t you?”

He shrugs.

She strides toward him. Slow, deliberate. Closing the distance with intent. "I can hear it when you breathe."

He raises an eyebrow.

She puts a hand on his chest, a warm shock of contact that jolts through his whole body and almost stops his breath right there. "Still got kind of a whistle sometimes."

Wheezy. He knows. Hears it himself.

He nods, still distracted by the light pressure of her hand, its slight rise and fall as he breathes.

“I just want to see where you’re at.” She cocks an eyebrow. “If you’re up for it.”

He’s up for it.

 

Up for getting his ass handed to him. Carolina’s in her undersuit but he can tell she’s not using her force amps, stabilizers, any of the suit’s capabilities. Just moving like she does. And she’s holding back on him. If he thought he could take it he’d tell her not to. She gives him a few minutes to hold his own. Leave him some dignity. They circle each other, trade a few jabs and she doesn’t take advantage of his miserably slow response time.

Never could match her in speed or agility. Just worse now.

She keeps him moving on his feet until he feels himself wheezing, feels a stitch starting in his left side, starts favoring it. She drives him back and back, and just when he thinks she’s going to have him up against the wall, she backs off. Gives him an opening.

He takes it. Should know better. She dodges his sloppy overswing, catches his forearm and with a twist he’s on his back, staring up at her. Out of breath, panting. Sweat on his brow.

Embarrassing. But he was never a match for her.

And staring up at her, those green eyes always, always watching him, studying him thoughtfully, he can’t mind. Not any of it, not the bad wheezy breath from his bad lung or how weak he still feels all over.

Hard to feel anything but good right now.

 

Carolina pats him twice, lightly on the chest, before letting him go. He climbs to his feet, grunts. “Not good.”

“You’ll get back there,” she says. More confident than he feels. “I’ll work with you.” Her eyes meet his. “If you want.”

Nod. “Want.”

“Good.” She claps her hands, and breaks into a smirk. “So let’s go again.”

 

They spar another round, Carolina still taking it easy on him, watching his stance, his footwork, his strikes. All sloppy. Frustrating. Know what his body’s supposed to be doing. Just can’t do it right.

Carolina comes at him faster this time, pulling her punches but driving him back and back in a near-constant retreat until he’s breathless and sweating again, until he loses focus from trying to breathe and his feet really get messy and he stumbles and she stops, lets him catch himself instead of taking him to the floor. Taps twice on his chest again, signaling the round’s over.

“You’re doing good,” she says and he snorts. “I mean it. It’s hard getting back in the game after you’ve been wounded. For what you’ve been through, you’re not doing badly. It’ll come back, Maine.”

He nods slowly.

“We’ll keeping working,” she says, and cracks a smile. “Go on, hit the shower.”

 

The shower feels good today, lukewarm water and a bar of hard white soap washing the sweat off his skin. The burn scars still stand out bright on his chest, probably always will, but the damp in the air feels good and eases up his breathing. You have to turn the handle all the way up to get really hot water and it doesn’t last long, Simmons is always complaining about Grif using all the hot. But right in the middle it comes out lukewarm, just the way Maine likes it.

No one cares if he walks from the bathroom to his bunk naked. Grif does it all the time. Simmons wraps up tight in the maroon towel that goes all the way around his wiry body, looks away if Maine happens to walk by naked. But no one really minds.

Gonna be sore, he thinks. Carolina pushed him hard today. Hate to admit that, but it’s true. But it was a good hard. Good to feel that ache in his muscles from hard work, from moving, instead of pain that weighs him down and makes him weak, pain from wounds he half-remembers.

This is all his.

Feels good.

 

“Sorry,” is the first thing he says to Doc and Donut when he shows up for lessons the next day.

“Aw,” Donut says, “It’s okay! These things can be really hard! It’s tough to handle it at first. You’ll get a grip on it, and it’ll get better and better, until finally you’ll feel your skills just _explode!_ You’ll see. I _believe_ in you, Maine!”

“Thanks.”

“Me too!” Doc offers. “Look how much you’ve learned already.”

That much is true. It doesn’t always feel like it, but he has learned a lot. Names and colors and questions and feelings and lots of things. Numbers one through nineteen.

He can do it. He can get through the stupid twenties. And if he can’t, well, he’ll just have to not say things with big numbers. Stupid to quit the whole thing just because of a handful of numbers.

Doc smiles when he takes a seat and starts going through them without being told to, starting from one and counting up.

 

Next day, Carolina wants to train outside.

Not sure about that.

“It’s nice out,” Carolina says. “Sunny. You really want to be cooped up in the basement?”

He shrugs uncomfortably.

“Okay,” Carolina says, and her voice takes a on a little bit of that Squad Leader edge. “Talk to me. What is it?”

He raises his hands, trying to find words he knows.

“Scared of me.”

Her brow pinches. “They’re not—”

He gives her a look. She sighs, and her shoulders drop.

“You have to be allowed to train just like everyone else.”

Shrugs.

“Wash runs the Blues _ragged_.” She snorts. “If he gets to train them hard, then I get to train with you.”

When he doesn’t answer, she puts a hand on his chest.

“You’re not a threat, Maine. They have to know that by now.”

“Not all.”

“Who? Who’s scared you?”

“Simmons.”

“Simmons can get over himself.” When he doesn’t answer again, Carolina groans. “ _Maine._ _”_

He grumbles.

“Are you really that worried about him?”

It’s not even that. Just hate being looked at that way.

Used to be okay with that. Kovalenko, the tank. Agent Maine, the heavy. Point him to what needs killing. Was okay. Was what he was. Maybe he can still be that, for them. Maybe if he lets them know he’s doing it for _them._ So he can help protect them. Hold the canyon. Defend their home.

Maybe he can find a way to tell them that.

“Want to help them. Not scare them.”

Carolina pats his chest gently. “They’ll understand that. If they don’t, I’ll tell them. Okay?”

“Okay.”

They go outside.

 

His body hasn’t forgotten how to fight. Maine’s body. His body. He’s clumsy, slow, not as strong as he used to be. But when he strikes or blocks or dodges, his body remembers.

Remembers things even his mind forgot, maybe.

Sparring is good. Training is good. Lets him sink all the way into his body, no words, no names, no ghosts rattling around in his skull. Just movement and force and impact, Carolina’s body and his body, moving together.

And sometimes, landing on his ass.

“You’re getting faster,” Carolina says with a half-smile, extending a hand. He takes it, hauling himself upright. Hear that wheeze in the left side of his chest. But feels good anyway.

“Again.”

Face off in the grass. Bare feet, already stained green on the bottom. Knees loose, shoulders back, fists raised, circling. Carolina’s green eyes bright in the sun.

She stops short of actually taking him to the ground, giving him a sharp one-two tap where she would’ve struck the destabilizing blow, then backing off. “Again.” And they go again.

So it’s not her fault he goes down the way he does. It’s his.

Third time, his foot slips. Lands wrong. Stupid. He _knows_ how to fall right, been trained how for years, long before her. He lands bad, right on his back, knocking the breath clean out of him. Pain spikes through his chest and and white spots flash in his eyes, blinding out the blue sky, as he wheezes hard, trying to pull his breath back in. A long, long minute of snowy white, glaring pain.

Then the breath comes and he sucks it in and rolls over on one elbow, panting.

Carolina’s in front of him, hand on his shoulder as his vision clears.

“Oh my god,” she’s saying, “Maine, I’m sorry. Maine. Are you okay? Look at me, please.”

Eyes meet his and there’s sheer terror in hers.

_Please._

He pushes himself to a sitting position to free up both hands. “Okay.”

“God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to go that hard on you.”

Shakes his head. Breathing. Breathing. Okay. “Me. Fell bad. Sorry.”

She shakes her head sharply. “It was my fault.”

“No. You help.”

She lets out her breath, shoulders sagging. Sits down in the grass, puts her hands on both his shoulders.

“Are you okay? Really?”

Nod.

She just keeps staring, and something comes back to him then. Something from long ago. Something his hands can say. “One two three four,” and release the breath—

One two three four five six seven eight.

Carolina’s fingers are tapping out the rhythm against his shoulder before he finishes the count.

She swallows. Nods. Keeps her hands on him for a moment, just watching him. He holds her gaze. Breathes. They’re right in the middle of the grass, in the southern curve of the S of the stream. Half the canyon probably looking at them.

Don’t care.

 

He thinks about it the rest of the day. In the shower later, green running off the bottoms of his feet and swirling down the drain as he scrubs his soles against the concrete floor, lathers up his chest and armpits with soap and almost doesn’t look at the burn scars.

Still breathing. Still living. Remember how hard his body fought to live, even when he wanted to die.

But his body is him. He is his body. Never would’ve called them different, before. Wasn’t Maine and Maine’s body. Was just Maine.

He towels off, stepping naked in front of the foggy mirror. Impossible not to look at the scars now. They’ve shrunk down to two red lines in his skin, still fiery at the point of contact, but not radiating out any more. Healing unit’s helped a lot with that. Won’t keep him from scarring entirely. Still have that cluster of gnarled dents in his throat, too, touches them with a finger as he looks. Need to shave, too. His face is prickly.

Whole body’s still warm, the sweat washed away but the shadow of movement and impact still alive in his limbs.

That’s where he feels weak. Not in his body, not in his mind, but where they connect. Where they’re the same. Where the ghosts pushed in and ripped them apart.

Sigma. Not the ghosts. _Sigma_ did that. Before any of the others were even there. Frozen in the ice, watching his own stolen hands. Helpless.

Just thinking about it he’s shaking. Hand on the wall to steady himself upright, stay standing.

Body fought so hard to live. Why couldn’t he fight then. _Why._ He’s making the sign to himself, his hand screaming what his voice can’t in the empty bathroom, clenching so hard on the _Y_ that his hand cramps. “Why, why, _why._ _”_

Why did _any_ of it have to happen? Why couldn’t he fight _then?_

When it mattered?


	14. Ask

They’re learning sentences now. It’s different in ASL. Not like English. Not that he ever liked talking in English sentences, if he could avoid it. Haven’t tried to speak Ukrainian in years, probably not a word of it since boot, but he remembers vaguely from his childhood that that was different too. Hard to switch between the two. If he got the words right, might get the order wrong.

Signing’s different, but it makes sense. Most important thing first, usually. Then whatever you have to say about it. _I_ _’m going over to Red Base_ becomes _BASE RED I GO I_.

“I don’t get it,” Carolina says. _UNDERSTAND I DON_ _’T I._ “Why are there so many _Is?_ _”_

“It’ll make more sense when you get to bigger sentences,” Doc says. “Trust me.”

“Yeah!” Donut agrees. “Sometimes you’ll putting _lots_ of topics into your sentences. It’s important to keep a hand on everything you’re putting in! So to speak.”

Carolina looks skeptical.

“Here,” Donut says, “let’s do some longer ones! I think you’ll see that length makes a _big_ difference.”

Carolina chokes back a laugh.

“I’m sure you’ll be able to handle it,” Donut says encouragingly. “You seem really good at handling big things!”

That one does it. Carolina’s eyes meet Maine’s across the garden and they both dissolve into snickering on the spot.

 

There are a lot of people in the canyon.

He likes most of them. At least, he thinks he does; it's hard to tell sometimes what he likes and what he doesn't like because there are still layers to things, a bunch of memories that aren't his and all of them full of liking things and not liking things and having feelings he doesn't want.

He still drinks those chocolate protein shakes sometimes, not because they're the best thing to eat but because he knows he likes them. Maine likes them. Not Sigma, not Eta or Iota. Not the little pieces of York and North and Wyoming and even Carolina mixed up in his head. Maine.

With new things it's harder and he has to think longer, hold it up against the memories he knows are his. And even then. Does he have to be the same? Can't be. He's Maine and he's working on that every day, being Maine, but it's not like he can be the exact same Maine he was before.

So it’s hard.

But he thinks he likes it here, with them. It just gets to be a lot, sometimes. A lot of people, a lot of voices. Not like the ghosts in his head, but still a lot. Fourteen voices crammed into one room and even as big as the room is, it gets so he can’t tell them apart.

He thinks back sometimes to how it was on the _Invention_ , how he could sit quiet in the middle of the squad lounge with ten people and five conversations going at once, and just tune out the ones he didn’t care about. Remember that he did it. Just can’t remember _how._ Feels like all the voices crowd in his head and he can’t filter them away. Not like he could before. Except when everything does fade out, when he starts falling out of his skin and when that happens he isn’t doing it on purpose. It’s all in or all out.

And it’s hard.

 

"Hey there. Maine?"

There's water running over his boots. That's the next thing he notices, after Doc's voice. Then solid rock against his back. He's sitting against the canyon wall at the very edge of the beach, where the stream flows into the lake, curled up as tight as he can with the stone wall solid at his back and there's water running over the toes of his boots.

"Hey," Doc says again, quiet, and sits down beside him.

He doesn't answer. It's taking a lot of effort to sort of be here right now, remember where he is and what his body feels like, and the impulse to nod doesn't make it all the way to where it's supposed to go.

"You kinda just walked out of Red Base," Doc says. Can't tell from his tone why that's a big deal. Even right next to him, he seems far away. "Kind of suddenly. Seemed like maybe something was wrong.”

Right. Red Base. They’d just come up from the holochamber. Two elevator trips. Blues and Reds everywhere. Everyone talking. It was a lot. Just needed to get away.

"So is everything okay?"

Still having trouble making a nod happen.

"If you need to be alone that's okay. I was just worried about you."

Not sure need is the word. Don't think anything is _wrong,_ don't feel hurt or bad or scared or upset, don't feel… much. Just feel outside himself and trying to get back in and there was too much noise so he had to go outside. Probably what happened.

He manages a nod. He'll be okay. He thinks. Probably.

"You just take it easy then. And come find us if you need anything, okay?"

Nod.

 

More questions. Full sentence questions now.

Carolina’s still having a hard time with the sentence order. Guess that makes sense. Used to speaking English a lot more. Harder to change.

“All right,” Doc says, “now, how would you sign, ‘Where is Red Base?’”

Carolina hesitates for a moment, then signs, _BASE RED WHERE._

“Don’t forget to use those eyebrows!”

Carolina furrows her brow.

“Great! Now try, ‘When are we going home?’”

_HOME GO WHEN._

“Don’t forget your referent!”

Carolina takes a deep breath. Can see she’s getting tired. Frustrated. B-hand brought up until the back of your fingers touch your chin, _frustrated._ Know what that feels like.

He touches her shoulder and Carolina looks at him.

“You’re doing good. It’s hard.”

Her faces relaxes a little, and she gives him a tired smile. Signs back, “Thanks.”

He squeezes her shoulder. Smiles back.

 

Not hard to make a sentence into a question. It’s all in the face, Donut says. Eyebrows up for yes or no questions. Eyebrows down and in for _who what where when why_ and _how_ questions.

Funny to hear it explained like that. Been asking questions with his face his whole life, so normal he never thought much about it. When things were simple, _yes, no, want this, don_ _’t want that._

Something feels good about it. Something he already knows, something already a part of him, and even if he has to think more about it now than before, it’s his.

Something Sigma didn’t know, never understood.

Remember North’s helmet, its purple muted in the dark. Gold reflected off gold in the moonlight. Talking to him. Trying to make him understand. _Trust me._ North studying him, staring like something was wrong.

Sigma never did know how to use his body right. Not even before, when he still took his helmet off. _Agent Carolina. Too high._ Didn’t know how to say things right. Didn’t understand a raised eyebrow or the tilt of his head. Maybe that’s why he couldn’t convince North. Didn’t move like Maine. Didn’t talk like Maine.

Funny thing. Never knew North all that well. South either. But even North knew, somehow. Knew Maine wasn’t Maine.

Something comforting about that. Can’t explain it. But it’s there.

Two years where no one looked at his face. No one who mattered, who cared. He remembers once: _sunken eyes and hollow cheeks and a dead-eyed look staring out at him from a foggy mirror and it isn't him and makes him feel sick but it is him_.

Don't want to think about that.

Getting his body back, was so busy trying to stay in it and stay alive he didn’t think about his face for a long time. He does now—now that he’s learning how to talk with his hands, keeping his helmet off. Now that he gets to think about the smaller parts of being Maine again.

When he thinks about that long time in the dark, he thinks of his face frozen, unmoving. Locked up inside, all the questions he couldn’t ask. All the things he couldn’t say. Maybe that’s why he does this, getting up here every morning and figuring out how to say things, all the things he didn’t _need_ to say before.

Two and a half years of silence, lost in a darkness so deep and smothering he thought he’d never be Maine again, even after they were gone. Maine wasn’t silent, even before. Maine had things to say. And even more now.

So he takes words in his hands. And he keeps going.

 

“Now ask _me_ a question!” Donut says eagerly, which makes Maine smile. Donut likes to talk about himself.

Thinks for a moment. Guess it’s all right to ask. They’ve been friends for a while now. Come to think of it, Donut asked him the same thing the first day they met. As good a reason as any.

“How did you get your scars?”

Can feel Carolina watching him as he signs.

“Oh, these?” Donut gestures to the sunburst of scarring over the right side of his face. “That was Tex!”

And now he feels Carolina tense.

“Sticky grenade to the helmet!” Donut barrels on, not noticing. “That’s how I got my light red armor!”

Maine snorts. Seems like something Tex would do.

“Sounds like something Texas would do,” Carolina says dryly.

“Well, I got her back!” Donut says with pride.

Carolina cocks her head. “Oh really.”

“Sure did! Sarge says I’ve got a great arm!”

Maine sneaks a look at Carolina. Her face is still tense, but she cracks a slight smile.

“I’d love to hear _that_ story sometime.”

Donut’s face lights up. “Well, since you asked…”

 

There are three flyovers the third week. Three alarms from FILSS, three times they all crowd into the lift and descend to the basement and wait, and wait, and wait.

Not so bad in the holochamber. Boring, maybe. He talks with Caboose, or watches Kai and Tucker play their dance game. When Carolina has Epsilon, he keeps his distance. Lets her and Wash do their thing.

It’s okay.

By the third one that week, it seems like the Hornets just aren’t that interested. Flying over lazily, maybe circling once, then departing. Carolina still watches the feed, arms crossed.

“Maybe they’re getting bored,” Wash says, a note of optimism in his voice.

Carolina nods, slowly.

 

“Yeah, bitch!” Yellow Grif shrieks, hip-checking Tucker off the holographic dance pad. “Suck on that!”

“Fuck,” Tucker says simply, but he’s grinning. “Rematch.”

For the first time since the alarms started, Carolina turns away from the feed, and looks across the room to the dance game. The screen showing arrows in bright colors, the pulsing electronic music. Carolina stares at Tucker and Yellow Grif for a long moment. They’re still ribbing each other, laughing. They don’t see her looking.

Carolina crossed the room in long, purposeful strides, and takes her helmet off in one fluid motion.

“Hey Kaikaina,” she says.

“Aw, _yes_ ,” Kaikaina says. “Bring it!”

“Consider it brought,” Carolina says with a dry smirk, tossing her helmet at Tucker who catches at against his breastplate with a startled, “Hey!”

The music starts and Kaikaina and Carolina take off in a flurry of movement, too fast and fluid for Maine to follow except to see that they’re both good. Fucking incredible, even. Honestly can’t tell who’s winning. It’s almost dizzying to watch.

Maine is impressed.

And something else, maybe. Hard to nail down at first. Something like the pull in his chest when he watches her with Wash, laying out plans and leading the team.

Stupid. Not like he’d be any good at dancing. Besides, it’s neat to watch.

He feels it anyway. Just a little.

 

Next day when he gets back to Red Base after sign lessons, Kaikaina is back.

“Yeah! Eat it, sluts!”

Maine pokes his head around the corner to the main room. Two Grifs on the couch. You really see how much they look alike, sitting right next to each other like that, cross-legged and kneeing each other. Well, mostly Kai kneeing her brother. She moves a lot while she plays, leaning one way and the other, waving the controller around, like Carolina does. Grif—Orange Grif—settles into a comfy spot and doesn’t move much more than his thumbs when he plays. But they look a lot alike. Same brown skin and thick thighs and bare feet tucked up under them. Same round faces and dark eyes, same long, curly dark hair only Kaikaina’s is dip-dyed blonde, piled up messily on top of her head with a few curls hanging in her face, while Dexter—that’s what Kai calls him, Dexter or Dex, or just “big bro”—has his pulled back in a messy ponytail, and has a several-day shadow of scruffy beard.

And a smile.

Grif looks happy.

“Hey, big guy!” Kai spots Maine in the doorway, waves him in. “C’mon. We need another player.”

“Define _need_ ,” says Grif.

“As in, I need another ass to whoop, ‘cause yours is grass.”

Grif snickers and waves Maine in.

Kai pats the base of the couch in front of her. Maine gives a friendly snort, and takes the spot, leaning against the sofa. Grif hands over his controller. “Here, have fun getting your ass kicked. I’m getting some snacks.”

 

He’s not kidding. Kai is good. Better than her brother. She’s fast and tricky and seems to have every map in the game memorized. Knows every hiding spot. Disappears, camps in the hidden places and dives out to one-hit melee kill, or just snipe him from afar.

“So,” Kai says, after destroying Maine for three rounds, “are you and that hot Freelancer lady banging, or what?”

Maine snorts. Shakes his head. “Before. Not now.”

“Hah!” Kai says. Doesn’t seem to have any trouble reading his signs over his shoulder. She must be good. “But you _were_ banging. Called it!”

Nod.

“So like, what’s up with you guys now?”

Shrug. Don’t really know how to answer that one. Don’t really know the answer.

“Complicated, huh? Yeah, I hear ya. Not into that monogamy stuff myself. Neither’s Vern.” Vern. Lavernius. That’s Tucker. “I’m a free bitch, baby. You ever feel like freewheelin’, you know where to find us. Either of you. Or both!”

Maine snorts again. “Thanks.” Not really looking but the offer’s nice. She’s fun. And pretty cute. Tucker too.

“That why you never come over to our base? Because it’s complicated?”

Shakes his head. “Not her. Wash. Epsilon.” He's sort of invented a name sign for Epsilon, a screaming E shaken side to side next to his head. Seems appropriate. First time Carolina saw him do it, she almost snorted lemon-lime electrolyte beverage up her nose.

“Oh shit! You bang them, too?”

Shakes his head.

“Just _complicated_ , huh?”

Nod.

Kai snorts. “Men. Well anyway, you should sort your shit out so you can come over and hang. I need another base for my pyramid. Got Caboose, Carolina’s a top, Vern and Wash are good wherever. You seem like a great bottom.” She nudges Maine’s shoulder with her knee. “Pun _totally_ intended. Ain’t gonna tell me you didn’t let that girl dom the shit out of you.”

Maine cranes his neck around just to raise an eyebrow at her.

“Hey man, I just call it like I see it. Anyway, work your shit out with Agent Tightass and the lightbulb. And with Carolina, because if you ain’t gonna hit that, I’m calling dibs.”

He’s snorting laughing. Can’t help it.

Kaikaina stretches out both legs over Maine’s shoulders, then lowers them, dangling her bare heels against his chest. Like it’s nothing. Like they’re old friends.

Friends.

It’s nice. Really nice. Just having someone touch him so casually. Not used to that. He relaxes against the couch. Tries not to move too much.

 

“Hey,” Grif calls from the kitchen, “What do you guys want to eat?”

Takes a minute to figure out Grif is talking to him. Still not used to that either. Grif even remembers to come to the doorway so he can see Maine sign.

“Chicken enchilada or beef. We got one of each left. Which one you want?”

He starts to fingerspell “chicken.” Gets halfway through and realizes he signed H again instead of K. Still slow at it. Grif gets the point though. Doesn’t pick on him about his spelling either. “Chicken it is.” He slices open both foil packets with his combat knife, slops them onto a plate and plunks it on top of the hot plate.

He likes Grif. That’s definitely him. Grif isn’t complicated. Grif doesn’t care what he did before. Doesn’t look at him with worry or annoyance or confusion.

Not that he… well, he gets it. But sometimes it gets tiring. Grif is simple. Easy to be around. They like the same things. Food. Video games. Even the Brute shot, which is still mounted on the wall behind the couch. Something comfortable about that. It’s okay if Grif keeps it. He doesn’t mind.

Grif scrapes half the hot mess of enchilada onto a second plate and carries both into the main room. Mostly impossible to tell which one is which at this point but Maine doesn’t really care. Grif hands the second plate to Maine.

“Thanks.”

“No problem,” Grif says, flopping on the couch beside him and digging in.

Grif’s questions are simple too. Easy to answer. What do you want to eat? (Whatever.) What game should we play? ( _Ringworld 3_.) You want a cigarette? (No thanks.) Trade you dish duty for two strawberry Yoohoos I stole from Sarge. (Okay.)

There are a lot of questions these days. Mostly they aren’t bad. Little things like that. Just choices. Not hard. There are just a lot of them. Sometimes his brain stalls out, can’t pick from even the simplest yes or no.

_No other choice._ Remember hearing that a lot.

But there were always choices. Sigma just started making them for him. And everyone else.

The others pushed back though. He remembers that. Iota and Eta. Delta. Theta. Tex. They all said no sometimes. All pushed back, fought Sigma when he couldn’t. _Stop it, you_ _’re scaring him. I don’t want to hurt anyone. Grow the fuck up and quit your bitching at each other for five seconds._

They all fought. All the time.

The chicken enchilada has lost most of its flavor in his mouth as he chews mechanically. Or maybe it just isn’t very good.

Why didn’t he try harder? Why couldn’t he fight?

 

It stays on his mind, all afternoon through his training with Carolina. He’s distracted, sloppy, reacting even slower than usual, and she can tell. Looks worried. He gets why, but it just makes him feel tired.

“Everything okay?” she says.

He nods. Okay.

She lets them finish early. Doesn’t ask any more questions. With the sun still high in the afternoon sky she looks away, catching her breath, and signs without speaking, “Finish?”

“Finish.”

Know she’s watching him go, as he walks back to Red Base. Doesn’t look back.

 

Lukewarm water washes the sweat from his skin and the warmth of hard work is fading from his muscles, but something still burns furiously in his chest as he walks back to his bunk to suit back up. Feels bad. Restless, frustrated. Need to do something. Sitting around only going to make it worse.

Think maybe he’ll go help Sarge with the Warthog, but Sarge is nowhere to be found when he steps outside. Not on the lawn, not up top. Down in the holochamber maybe, working on his plans or setting up new training regimens Grif won’t do and Simmons will do just a little too eagerly.

Maine sighs, and looks up canyon, and remembers.

_Come find us if you need anything, okay?_

Didn’t really take that seriously at the time. Maybe he should have. Hard to ask. Can’t talk to Carolina about this and don’t know who else to talk to, or what to say. Finds himself walking back over toward the farm shack, maybe because he doesn’t know where else to go. What else to do.

 

Doc is out front, tossing scraps to the chickens. Starting to learn their names, too. Mimosa. The orangey one. Ruby Duchess is pecking around in the garden. Strawberry Champagne struts past a fencepost, clucking.

“Can we talk?”

“Hey! Yeah! Of course!” Doc looks absurdly, unreasonably pleased. “Come on in. I’ll just wash up and put some water on for tea.”

 

Never was a tea drinker. That was Wyoming’s thing, back on the _Invention_. Most of them drank coffee. Maine never cared for either very much. If he needed it, an energy drink was good enough. Didn’t like to get dependent on that stuff in general.

But Doc puts a cup of tea in front of him, steaming and dark amber-colored in the stainless steel mug, and sets a little packet of honey beside it. Maybe he got Command to send those, too. Back when they could still call Command. Back before they were all in hiding.

Everyone coming back here must’ve really messed things up for Doc and Donut.

He takes a sniff and there’s no denying the tea smells good to him. And that might not be his. Sits staring at it for a moment, trying to figure it out and then gives up and tears the packet open and squeezes the liquid, golden honey out into the cup, giving it a stir with the spoon Doc offers.

Doc gets out a package of some kind of cookies—shortbread, maybe, something about them seems familiar—and arranges a few on a plate he sets between them on the table. The table that’s really a supply crate with two sides removed so you can get your knees under. Maine barely fits anyway. Doc dunks his teabag up and down and then lifts it out, squeezing it against the side of the cup with his spoon, and sets it on the edge of the plate. Maine watches him. Does the same.

“So,” Doc says at last, after a casual first sip. “What’s up?”

 

Where to start. He blanks out so hard he just stuffs a cookie in his mouth and chews slowly to buy some time. The cookie’s good, dry and crumbly and buttery. That much is him. That helps.

Doc doesn’t push him, just watches him with thoughtful brown eyes and sips his own tea. When he looks up, can’t help meeting those eyes, remembering.

Stupid to come to him. But then again. Maybe that’s where he starts.

“Sorry.”

Doc tilts his head, and takes a cookie. “What, you mean about that whole hostage thing?”

Nod. “Hurt you. Hurt Donut.”

“Well, that’s fair,” says Doc easily, like they’re talking about the weather. “That’s fair enough. Kinda seemed like your friend Washington was running the show there.”

Shrug. It’s not untrue. Doesn’t feel right either.

“Didn’t stop him.”

Doc takes a bite of his cookie and studies Maine thoughtfully. “Do you wish you had?”

Wish he could say yes and be sure of it. Wish he could be sure of anything about those first days out of the box, the time spent down here with Wash. It all feels so fuzzy and far away. Like a dream.

But he did real things. Hurt real people.

Regret means he thinks he’d do different, if he could do it all over again. Don’t even know if he could. Don’t know how to explain.

Stupid. Yes, he wishes he didn’t hurt Doc. Doc who’s been nice to him. Taught him words and sentences, checked up on him. Gave him tea.

He doesn’t even fucking know if he likes tea. How’s he supposed to know what he wishes he’d done.

 

If it weren’t for the tea and the plate of cookies still sitting between them he can’t be sure he wouldn’t just get up and leave. Forget about this trying to talk. Not worth it. But he’s barely drunk any of his tea and those cookies are really good.

Doc is smart, maybe.

Maine reaches for another cookie, and when it’s gone, and his hands are free, he tries again.

“Didn’t fight. Didn’t fight Wash. Didn’t fight—”

There it is, the part he can’t get out. The part he can’t stand to say for real, not even to himself.

Every letter of the name makes him feel like his chest is caving in. The little farmhouse feels, suddenly, way too small and close. Feels like he’s going to stop breathing.

“Didn’t fight Sigma.”

Said it. Said it for real and now Doc knows.

Feel like sinking into the ground. Bury himself under the zucchini and never come up to breathe again.

 

Doc takes a deep breath and lets it out. He adjust his glasses, runs a hand through his hair. Gets up from the table. Gets the box of cookies. Dumps some more cookies onto the plate and sits back down.

Doc is smart, probably.

"Maine…" Doc looks at him very seriously. Folds his hands together. "You know I had one of them in my head for a while, yeah? O'Malley?"

_O-O'Malley_ _… I mean, Omega…_

Remember the fear in the medic's voice, but there's none of it now.

He nods.

Doc laughs. "He really got around, that O'Malley. Passed through a lot of heads, you know?"

He knows.

"You couldn't… Maine, nobody could fight him. No one except Tex. Certainly not me. I'm not…" Doc looks down at the table. Breaks a cookie in half, shoulders sinking a little. "I'm not a fighter. I admit that. But nobody could fight him, Maine. People tried _._ And you had what… seven, eight of them at once?"

Shakes his head. “One, before.” Only one when it mattered.

"Even then. Maine, you—you can't tell yourself you should've done the impossible. Those AIs messed up everyone they touched." Doc lifts his tea to his lips again, and Maine does the same. Steam warm on his lips, tea bittersweet on his tongue. “I don’t know exactly what happened… before. But I don’t think you can blame yourself for everything.”

Shrug.

Doc raises an eyebrow at him. "I don’t think _she_ blames you either.”

Maine shifts uncomfortably.

"If anything, she acts like what happened to you was her fault." Doc gives him a thoughtful look. "Maybe you two have more in common than you think."

Like it was her fault. Yeah. He can see that. The way she watches him. Hovers over him. The way she worries. Like she has to take care of him. Trying to fix something that can’t be fixed.

Maybe they both are.

He goes silent, thinking about that and drinking his tea and Doc doesn’t push him. They sit for a few minutes, eat cookies, before Doc speaks again.

“You said you didn’t get any kind of speech therapy, right?”

Shakes his head. Not much use for speech therapy when you can’t talk at all.

Doc shoots him a look. “So like. You realize everything in this program is completely—pardon my French—completely effed up, right? Like, I’m not gonna blow your mind or anything.”

Snort.

“I’m just sayin’. Your treatment might not have been, you know. Standard.”

Huh.

“But I mean. Can’t really do anything about that now. The physiological part, anyway. The rest… you get confused, sometimes, right? Maybe forget where you are, or feel like you’re not really in your body? Like you’re floating, or outside yourself watching?”

Maine nods, surprised.

“Yeah, that’s a thing. I mean, it’s really not that uncommon, especially for combat veterans.”

Oh.

“What is it?”

“Well, I couldn’t really say, I mean. I only minored in psych, and uh. Undergrad was a long time ago. It’s a symptom of a lot of things. I’m just saying, whatever’s going on with you—like, what happened to you was pretty out there, no question, but the symptoms you have now? Not that weird. Probably treatable.”

Treatable.

Like he’s just sick.

Maine thinks about that.

“Meditation might help!” Doc adds cheerfully, taking a sip of his tea. “Always welcome to join us in the morning. We usually sit for a half hour after yoga.”

Maine grunts. Sitting still with nothing to do but think doesn’t sound very good. Sounds pretty bad, actually. Moving makes him feel better. Seems better to do that.

“Exercise helps.”

“Well, whatever works for you,” Doc says mildly, and reaches for another cookie.

 

He takes his time finishing his tea and eats a lot of cookies. By the time he’s ready to leave, he’s decided tea is okay, with honey in it. And if he didn’t like it before, maybe he likes it now. He can make that his. Even if it wasn’t before.

“Thanks.”

“No problem!” Doc says brightly. “I’m here anytime you want to talk! It’s nice to have someone come over! I mean, the others don’t really, you know,” Doc lets out a laugh that sounds just a little bit forced, “I don’t think they really remember that we’re here.”

That brings him up short. Might be true. The Reds talk about Donut occasionally. Mostly about him going purple. Don’t really talk about Doc at all. Probably the same with the Blues.

It’s nice over here, their own little home surrounded by flowers and vegetables and the chickens that circle Maine’s ankles curiously as he steps out the front door, ducking under the low doorway. But maybe they get lonely, too.

 

It’s that strange bright light of early evening that doesn’t really feel like evening, the sun still well above the mountains in the southern sky. Red Base casts its shadow over the grass, all the shadows of rocks and trees running up canyon toward Blue Base.

A shadow sits in his field of vision when he steps out of the farm shack, shooing the chickens away with the toe of his boot. Something dark in the bright sun, pulling at him. Making him look. Something not his.

He looks anyway.

 

Anyone could see him crossing the canyon, keeping south of the boulders and the little hill right in the middle, splashing through the stream at its narrowest point and coming out on dry grass. Once he gets where he’s going, though, a sizable jut of rock blocks the vantage from Blue Base. Still a view from Red, until he’s close enough to touch—the dead Pelican lying dull black against gray rock and green grass.

_Everybody just hang on_ —

He remembers it doubled, in overlay. Both times, the wordless shriek of death coming for you, the burn of atmo and the burn of electromagnetic pulse through the embedded nanohardware in their brain. His brain. Maine’s.

Feels it in overlay, the chorus of screams and that one voice, urgent and strong.

_You_ _’re gonna make it out of this. Hang on. Just hang on._

Close enough to touch now, with a black-gloved hand on black hull, weathered by sun and rain and snow.

Hang on. Didn’t think he could. But he did.

_Like to say I would_ _’ve done anything to save her._

Bet Carolina doesn’t know that. Wonder what she’d think. Need to tell her that, somehow. Explain why he’s alive, why he really made it out. He has some of the words now. Learning how to put them together. Hard part is saying them to her.

Have to figure out how.

 

The Pelican is empty now. No bodies, no empty black-armored shell. No white helmet. No bomb shrapnel. Whatever was left over after the crash, the Blues took. Or Recovery teams. Probably that actually. Remember something about that.

Remember the numbers and the codenames, falling in the grass. This whole canyon washed in blood. So much of it on his hands.

_Never going back_.

That was her. Her and Omega. Recovery 6, 7, 8, 9. Nevada, he thinks. Hampshire. Mississippi. Kansas.

_Hey K. K. Hey._

Maine sighs, and taps his fist against the black hull of the dropship.

Looks at it.

Wait.

 

“Hey there, big guy,” Sarge grunts as Maine steps out of the elevator. “Got some work for us to do on the—wait, slow down there son, emp-whatsajigger?”

He spells again, “Emp-hog,” and FILSS brings up the Warthog plans in crisp holographic light. Taps the chassis with a finger. “Need shield. Broken bird. Hull.” That he has to spell, but it’s an easy one.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” says Sarge, cocking his helmet. “You just might be onto somethin’ here. Yeah, yeah, them birds always got electromagnetic shielding. I used to jump out of ‘em from orbit, back in the day.”

Maine nods. Done that before.

“Hot damn,” Sarge says, rubbing his gloved hands together. “It’s just what we need to perfect my design!” He coughs. “I mean, I always _knew_ there was a way to solve the stalling problem, obviously. Just needed the materials.” He claps Maine on the shoulder. “You done good. Let’s get to strippin’ that baby down.”

 

“I heard something about stripping!” Donut says cheerfully, popping out from around the corner as they step out of the lift. “Happy to help!”

“Corn chowder! Where’d you come from? How’d you even hear—”

“Because you’re talking on the open channel,” Grif calls from the couch. “Everyone in the canyon can hear you. The Blues can hear you.”

Sarge grunts. “Maybe that’s just what I _want_ them to think.”

Carolina’s voice comes over the COM. “You rang?”

Maine snickers.

“Absolutely nothing!” Sarge says, then adds in a stage whisper, “Classic misdirection.”

“Heard that too,” Wash’s voice chimes in.

“Ah, shut up.”

 

He armors up the rest of the way before they go to strip the Pelican. Force amps come in real handy here. Parts of the bird’s hull are already loose and rip off pretty easy. Other bits take some more work. Donut crawls under the wing and into the hold to take out bolts and rivets and pry things loose. He’s real good at fitting into tight spaces. Seems like he’s having fun.

When they’re finished pulling off everything they can, they’ve got a sizable stack of hull plating stacked up on the west side of Red Base, right next to Sarge’s Warthog with its turret-mounted EMP. Ready to strip the hog and refit it with the EMP-hardened shielding. Ready to make Sarge’s pet project really work.

“What’s going on?” Simmons says, coming out the west side of the base. “What the—what’s all this?”

“Shielding for the Warthog!” Sarge says triumphantly. “The final missing piece! The secret stuff!”

“But,” Simmons says. “But sir, you said—”

“Always told you it would work, Simmons!”

“Sir, I was the one who—”

“Never doubt me!”

Simmons shoulders drop, and his gaze fixes on Maine, eyes narrowed.

Maine shrugs. Simmons turns on his heel and stalks back inside.

“Good work,” Sarge says gruffly. “Here.” Tosses Maine a yellow bottle. Strawberry Yoohoo. It tastes good, even better than those strawberry meal drinks the Invention was always out of. Creamier, not chalky. Ice cold, too. Still don’t know where Sarge keeps his stash.

He drinks it slow, enjoying every sip.

Might not be a very important project—they haven’t had any encounters with ground vehicles and bringing down a Hornet from the sky would just cause them more problems—but it feels good all the same. Feels good to help. Do something right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need to give a huge, huge shoutout to [Rochelle Barlow's youtube channel](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCze42SSwKeotHUSIJS6MPcA), a great place to learn ASL--not just vocabulary but grammar and sentence structure and all that fun stuff.


	15. Fight

The alarms are coming every other day now. While they’re sitting by the garden practicing signs, or working on vehicles, or playing video games in the base. Even at night, during their few hours of dark, while he’s on the upper deck with Carolina looking at the stars, sleepy and half-leaning on each other. Might’ve fallen asleep right there if FILSS’s voice hadn’t jolted them to their feet and propelled them downstairs.

“Aircraft will be within sensor range in approximately forty-five seconds,” FILSS chirps as they tumble out of the lift, him and Carolina and the Reds.

“Everybody out,” Carolina barks, _“hurry_ , the others need the lift. Donut, Wash, what is your status, repeat, what is your status?”

“Blue Team is en route,” comes Wash’s voice.

“We’re here,” Donut reports. “Ready and waiting at the top of your shaft!”

“Thirty seconds to sensor range!” says FILSS.

“Donut, you and Doc need to wait for the Blues, we don’t have time for two trips down. Blue Team, you need to _move._ _”_

“We’re moving!” Tucker says.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” says Caboose.

“You can go in the suit, you moron!”

“Aw, really?” Kai says. “Sick. We’re like astronauts!”

“Astronauts—you’re _space Marines,_ ” Wash sputters. “These suits are designed to survive in the vacuum of space! They’re designed to keep you alive for weeks in the field, _how do you not know this?_ _”_

“No one told me,” says Caboose.

“Ten seconds,” says FILSS.

“Wash,” Carolina growls. _“Hurry.”_

“We’re here,” Wash says. “Everybody in, come on—”

From above, the elevator grumbles as it starts to descend.

“Aircraft now within sensor range,” FILSS says.

“Damn it,” Carolina snarls, pacing back and forth. “God _damn_ it.”

No one else says anything. The rumble gets louder, and finally the lift grinds to a stop, and the Blues pour out into the chamber.

“We got here as fast we could,” Wash says, meeting Carolina as she crosses the chamber with purposeful strides. “Sorry.”

“Let’s hope it was fast enough,” Carolina says tersely. “FILSS, give us a feed.”

The video footage pops up in full holographic color on the wall. Straight ahead of Lopez, dead center of the canyon, two Hornets touching down in the grass.

“Damn it,” Carolina hisses again, harsh between her teeth. Wash stands at her side, watching.

“We don’t know that they detected us,” he says, low and quiet.

“They’ve never landed,” Carolina says tightly. “Why now?”

Wash doesn’t answer.

 

The video feed from Lopez's helmet can only show a limited swath of canyon at once, but it pretty clearly shows them the Hornet landing mid-canyon, and four soldiers in gray armor disembarking. Two head up canyon to Blue Base, the other two south to Red.

Everyone goes sort of quiet then. Stupid, no reason to figure they'd be heard. They're deep underground, deep enough to block radar and heat signatures. The elevator shaft is hidden behind a panel of wall that looks just like any other wall, and even if they find it, control of the lift has been given to FILSS, and she won't let anyone down without their approval.

Still. Feels like they're all holding their breaths.

One of the Recovery agents or whatever they’re calling them now comes right over to the garden shack and toes at a melon with his boot. Donut watches on the Lopez feed, practically biting his nails off.

Doc keeps a hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay. They’re not hurting anything.”

“But the _flowers,_ ” Donut wails. “The delphiniums! They’re very fragile.”

There’s sort of a collective intake of breath as the gray solder gets close to the camera. Closer. Then right in front of it, visor to visor, staring.

“Back off, creep!” Kaikaina says out loud.

Sarge grunts, discontented.

But the soldier backs away after another minute. Leaves Lopez alone.

After what looks like a final sweep of the canyon, they board their Hornets and leave.

 

“You think they know?” Carolina says to Wash in a low voice, the two of them hanging back as the rest of the Blues pile into the elevator, the Reds waiting for the second trip.

“What, that we’re here?” Wash says. “That we’re watching them?”

“Both, yeah.”

Wash makes a thoughtful noise. “Well… the bases do look pretty lived-in. Not much we can do about that, as long as we’re still living topside. But they can’t know about this chamber.”

“Affirmative,” FILSS chimes in. “My most up-to-date records of this outpost show no record of any underground chamber.”

“So they think they’ve searched the place thoroughly. Maybe they’ll think we moved on.”

Carolina doesn’t answer for a moment. She has FILSS’s records of Valhalla open and is swiping through them slowly, lips pursed. Aerial view, base blueprints, topographical map, some photographs from different angles.

“What’s on your mind?” Wash prompts.

Carolina says, and closes the folder, the images vanishing into thin air. “I don’t know,” she says finally. “Maybe… moving on isn’t a bad idea.”

“And go _where?_ _”_ Wash’s voice climbs a few pitches.

“There are other bases. We could… stay on the move for a while. While we figure out a better plan.”

Wash sighs. “This is home to them. I don’t… I don't want to uproot them again. Not if we don't have to.”

Home. Fingers flat together like eat, touch to mouth and ear. Home, where you eat and sleep.

"I know," Carolina says, sighing. "I get it, Wash, I do, but… if they find us…”

“You said yourself that we could defend this position,” Wash says.

“I did,” Carolina says. “But if they decide to storm this canyon, how long can we truly hold it? And at what cost?"

Wash doesn’t answer.

“For that matter, what about food? Eventually our supplies are going to run out. One field of corn and beans isn’t going to feed eleven people through a winter, you know that, right?”

“Yes,” Wash says, sighing. “I am aware.”

"I just think we need to be prepared. To move on, if we have to."

Wash exhales. “Let’s take a breather and see whether they come back again. They searched the canyon and they didn’t found anyone. Maybe they’ll give up.”

This time it’s Carolina who doesn’t answer.

 

Everyone stays on edge. Knowing the alarm could come anytime. Even Maine stays in his armor now, full plate most of the time, just keeping his helmet off. Every time he walks through the base, sees the Brute shot on the wall, he thinks how he could grab it if he had to.

If they had to fight.

He feels jumpier. The more frequent the alarms the more it startles him, somehow, when they come. Always been hard to sleep, since he got here, but now he hates to even try, and sometimes even after dawn, after Carolina heads back to Blue, he stays up instead, plays video games until his vision blurs and he dozes off still armored on the couch.

 

So it’s his fault, when it happens. He’s tired, hardly slept at all, and he’s struggling to focus all through sign lessons and when he heads out, he’s just kind of walking on autopilot. Doesn't mean it. Just forgets where he’s going. Sees a base and thinks it’s his. Maybe got confused like he does sometimes.

He wasn't trying anything. Wasn't going to hurt anyone even if he was mixed up, even if he did wander off following the wrong memory. He _knows_ that.

But Epsilon doesn't.

"What the fuck! I told you to keep him away from here!"

It's the yelling that rattles Maine back, tips him off to the fact that he _might_ not be in the right place. Everything kind of blurs together in his ears like the sound of the waterfall is drowning it out, but he still knows shouting when he hears it.

Caboose is out front yelling something about how he isn’t supposed to be here because Church said so, and he's already stopped dead in his tracks but it takes him another solid minute to remember that _Church_ is Epsilon, and why Epsilon is screaming at him, to remember _anything_ except that the voice means _bad_.

Not supposed to be here. He knew that. He _knows_ that. He knows which base is Blue Base, too, and he knows he's not supposed to be here. He _knows_ better, and he's quietly furious at himself, and quietly is all he _can_ be because he can't fucking _talk_ and even his hands feel frozen and useless and his whole head goes blank and he can't explain. Can't say he wasn't coming for their stupid screaming AI, that he doesn't want to be anywhere near him, that he'd be happy if he never saw him ever again.

He can't get anything out, even if they could understand _._

“ _Meta."_

The word lands like a punch in the gut.

Wash has come out of Blue Base in full armor, helmet on, yelling at him. He has his pistol drawn.

His fucking pistol. Maine isn't even armed.

It flashes through his head every time his hands aimed a pistol at Wash. Every time his hands tried to kill Wash, every time his smothered consciousness pushed against the crushing void, saying _no._

He knows damn well why Wash has his pistol drawn.

It hurts anyway.

 

"Meta."

Maine jerks both hands up, palms out. He's not even moving.

"You can't be over here," Wash says, his voice sliding back to its regular pitch. The sharp edge has left, and his pistol hand's at his side, and then he's snapped it back to his magholster but Maine doesn't feel better. Wash claps him on the shoulder with one hand, turning him around with a force that probably doesn't show in the touch.

He lets himself be turned. Lets himself be marched back across the canyon.

"You know you can't come to Blue Base," Wash says, voice lower now. "And you can't come near Epsilon. Those are the rules. You agreed."

He knows. He _knows_. He just got mixed up.

"You're a Red. You stay at Red Base. You understand?"

He's too busy stewing to nod.

"Meta. _Do you understand?"_

He jerks away from Wash's hand still on the back of his shoulder. The anger is sudden, unexpected. Just socks him in the gut out of nowhere. Part of him wants to just stalk off down to the beach, leave Wash in the dust, because he doesn't want to hurt Wash but he can't stand it and he can't fix it and—

No. There's one thing he knows how to say.

"Maine."

He's punching the air with his signs. Donut warned him about that. Don't knock your signs, that's yelling.

Well, he feels like yelling.

Wash is staring at him.

He signs it again, trying not to punch. Not yell this time. "Maine."

"He wants you to call him 'Maine.'"

It's Doc, come up beside them. Must've been watching from the garden. Seen what happened.

Wash raises his chin slightly, like he's about to say something, and then drops it again.

"You two," Doc says, " _really_ need to have a talk, don't you?"

Wash sighs. "I don't know what there is to talk about."

Doc shrugs. "Well, I don't either, but you've obviously got some wires crossed somewhere. I'd be happy to interpret for you! You could even think about learning, too."

"I don't," Wash says. Stops. "I don't know if that's a good idea."

"Understanding your friend better isn't a good idea?"

"It's not that." Wash kind of flails his hands a little. "I just don't think—"

"You don't think Donut would want to help you! Because of that whole shooting him thing."

"I mean," Wash says lamely. "Yes. That's about the size of it."

“You do remember that you guys held me hostage for like three days, right? And interrogated me? And dragged me through the desert stuck in a piece of wall?”

“Listen,” Wash says, “that was—”

Doc puts a hand on Wash's shoulder. "Can I be honest with you, Agent Washington?"

"I guess you're going to," Wash says unhappily.

“Most of the people in this canyon used to mortal enemies!” Doc says. “Heck, I’m not sure there’s anyone here who hasn’t tried to kill someone else here at least once!”

From a distance comes a familiar cry of, “Not my fault!”

Wash glances back toward Blue Base. “How did he even—”

“Like Caboose!” Doc forges on. “He got you sent to prison, and now you share a base with him, and call him your friend. And Epsilon—" Wash visibly tenses. "Well, you two obviously have your history. But that’s all water under the bridge now! We’re all on the same team here!"

"In a manner of speaking," Wash mutters.

“You know, Wash,” Doc says, patiently, “we’ve never once told you you couldn’t visit us at our home, since you all moved back into the canyon. And you haven’t, and we respect your personal space and all, but you should know that you’re welcome to come by.”

Wash looks like he wants to squirm out from under Doc’s hand.

Doc pats his shoulder. "What happened between you and Maine might not be any of my business, Wash, but if you’re both going to live here, you're going to have to come to some sort of understanding."

"We understand each other just fine," Wash snaps back, almost automatically, and their gazes meet. Maine's eyes to Wash's visor, and Wash sort of freezes for a moment, then looks away.

"Well," Doc says, more gently. "Maybe you don't understand him as well as you think."

 

The garden lets him breathe.

Cornstalks at his back, zucchinis to one side and eggplant to the other, chickens pecking around in the dirt. In the far corner the melons are getting pretty big. Donut’s on his knees, pulling weeds with a pair of floral pink gardening gloves and a straw sunhat on his head. Sometimes he talks to himself while he works, or sings a few bars of some tune Maine doesn’t know. Doesn’t mind Maine being there. Doesn’t try to make him talk back.

Feels peaceful. Feels familiar in a safe way. The garden is new. Not like the bases. Can’t get mixed up in his head, turned around, upside down.

The garden isn’t full of ghosts. Just vegetables and flowers and chickens.

 

He spots Carolina on her way over from Blue. Helmet off, hair bright against the cliffs behind her and the blue sky. No one else in sight. No blue glow, no Epsilon.

Carolina hops the fence, and sits down beside him in the garden.

“Wash told me,” she says.

He grunts.

“Can you tell me what happened?”

He thinks through the words he knows.

“Confused.”

She nods slowly.

“Red Base. Blue Base. Confused.”

“You just got mixed up.”

Nod.

She nods back slowly. “Did you tell Wash that?”

Shakes his head.

“Do you want to tell him?”

Shrug.

Carolina exhales. “Look, I told him it was just a misunderstanding, but… it’d probably help if he heard that from you.”

Maybe it would. Feels stupid now, that he didn’t just say that. Couldn’t put it together. Couldn’t find the right words.

Even with signs, sometimes it’s hard.

Carolina wants him to say yes. Go talk to Wash. Fix things. And he should. Don’t want to go back to Blue Base, though. Don’t want to go to Red either. The canyon feels small and he’s trapped in the middle of it. No place really his.

Carolina sighs. “I’m sorry about Church—about Epsilon. He doesn’t mean it.”

Maine snorts. Seems like he means it.

“I mean—I’m not saying this right.” She fidgets, pulls her hair down from its bun and starts twisting it back up tighter. “You know how it is for—us, for you and me and Wash? Being the last. Knowing everyone else is gone.”

Nods slowly.

“Well, Church is— _everyone_ he _—_ _”_ Her hands flail, helpless in the air. “He’s the last of the fragments, Maine. The last one left. Everything that was a part of him, once. They’re all gone.”

Maine utters a low growl. He knows. Felt them go. Felt them die screaming, one by one.

Carolina looks down at the ground. Maine shoots a glance at Donut but he’s at the far end of the garden, pulling weeds, whistling softly to himself, his bad ear toward them. Carolina takes a deep breath, the way she does when she’s struggling to force the words out. Whatever this is, it’s important.

Whatever it is, it’s hard and it hurts her. Would do anything to make it not hurt her, and he can’t.

“He was alone,” she says, an edge to her voice. “We both were. These people, the Reds and Blues, they… they’re his friends, but he’s not the same Church they knew before. Alpha. When Alpha was out here—not here, at Blood Gulch—he doesn’t really remember that, even if he acts like he does. She shoots a glance at Maine. “I never met Alpha. I guess… you did.”

Nod.

“He was always with us, though. Back on the ship. All the mission parameters the Director gave us—gave me—they all came from him. They’d feed him the data, he’d give them team deployments, loadouts, the whole mission plan. Only sometimes it was wrong.”

Nod. Remember that.

“Epsilon was… still part of him, back then. He remembers all of that. All the simulations, all the… scenarios. Every time the Director told him one of us was dead. That’s what he did to Alpha, to break him. He thought it was his fault.”

_Please, Agent Maine, understand._

Remember Sigma a low flame, burning with pain. Real. For all the shit he did, what he said was true.

_They did this to us._

He shivers.

“He remembers all of it,” Carolina says, her voice low and tight. “He tries to keep a… partition up, most of the time, when he rides with me, but… there’s still some bleed. I know some of the things he remembers. I know why he is the way he is. Why he’s so angry. Why he’s scared of you.”

 _Scared_. Kind of a relief, really, hearing her say it. Scared of you. He knows that, knows they have every reason to be, all of them. Suppose it makes sense for Epsilon, too.

Maine’s scared of _him_ if he’s being honest.

“Don’t want to hurt him.”

“I know.” Carolina’s wringing her hands together. “I _know_ , Maine, believe me. I know you don’t want to hurt him. I know he doesn’t want to hurt you either. He’s not like Sigma. He doesn’t want—even if he did I would _never_ let that happen.” Her voice has gone tight and raw. “I will _never_ let anything like that happen to you again, Maine. I _promise._ _”_

Don’t know how to answer that. Want to say it wasn’t her fault but it’s getting hard to talk again, even with his hands.

“I just want you to understand why he’s important to me,” Carolina says, quieter. Softer. “You don’t have to like him. You don’t have to ever go near him if you don’t want to. But he had my back when no one else did. When we were both alone, he—he was all I had. And I was all he had.”

Nod. “Understand. Don’t hate him.”

Carolina swallows, her green eyes liquid in the sunlight. Not crying. She never cries. But like something’s broken open in her all the same.

“I’m glad,” she says, a little hoarsely. “Thank you. I mean it.”

Carolina looks spent, exhaustion creasing her face. So much he wants to say, wants to tell her. Most of all that he gets it. That he had someone like that too. But that won’t be an easy talk either. Don’t think she can take that right now. Another time.

She looks small. Hard to see her that way. Small and sad and tired. He puts his hand on her shoulder and feels her breath exit her lungs and for a moment, they’re both sitting dead still, waiting.

He forgets to breathe.

Then she moves closer.

He exhales so slowly. Scared it all might dissolve if he so much as breathes to hard. She might not really be here, leaning into his touch. Close enough to feel her breathing, too, letting his cheek rest against the top of her head, can smell her hair. She wraps one arm around him and he leans into her too, and closes his eyes. And things feel okay.

They’re okay.

 

The alarm sounds again. The Hornets land. Again.

It’s worse this time.

The video feed shows gray-armored soldiers, six of them now, searching up and down the canyon, behind every boulder. Two head north to Blue Base, two south to Red. Two of them disappear into Doc and Donut's home.

No games this time. Not much chatter. Everyone watching the feed as Lopez turns his head to the south and to the north. At the edge of the frame, can see a gray soldier tramping through the garden. Donut is almost in tears.

If they touch the flowers, Maine thinks, or the chickens, might just have to go up there and kill them all himself. He’s got active camo. Bet he could get up the lift and have his old Brute shot off the wall before anyone noticed him. Bet he could take them all. He’s been training. Getting stronger.

Don’t realize how hard he’s clenching his fists until Carolina puts a hand on his shoulder. She doesn’t say a word.

The two soldiers come out of Doc and Donut’s house, pass Lopez’s field of vision again. One of them turns his head, says something to the other, and something feels familiar. Something he can’t quite—

Wait.

Shit.

 

“—gonna find anyone in here, they’re obviously gone. Waste of fuel if you ask me.”

He’s an idiot. Should’ve thought of this weeks ago.

“They’ve been here, though. Stuff’s moved.”

The Recovery COM. He still has access.

“How can you even tell?”

Could’ve been listening this whole time.

“That tea pot wasn’t there before.”

“I guess.”

There’s some kind of crashing noise, and Maine curls his fists again.

“Anyway I heard if they don’t turn up soon, Chairman’s going to some kinda Plan B.”

“Where’d you hear that?”

“Kupferschmidt.”

“She’s just talking. She doesn’t know.”

Maine taps Carolina on the shoulder and signs as fast as he can put the words together.

 

“How do you still have access?” Wash says in disbelief. “My credentials stopped working weeks ago—”

“—after we broke into Command,” Carolina finishes. “But Maine wasn’t there. That means he’s still dead, Wash. On the books. They don’t know he’s alive.”

Wash nods. “Well, that’s something I guess.”

“’Plan B,’” Carolina repeats. “What does that mean? I don’t like the sound of that.”

Wash shoots a glance at Maine. “Keep listening. See what you can find out.”

 

But there isn’t much else.

He listens. Listens while the Recovery team search the canyon, turn over their bases, chatter idly and talk shit. Listens until his head starts to swim with it, all the strange voices. Well. Better than ghosts anyway. Least he knows they’re unfamiliar.

Listens until the soldiers board their Hornets and take off, and the voices drop out of range and the channel goes dead again.

 

It's been well over an hour by the time FILSS gives them the all-clear.

"We'll go up first," Carolina directs. "Me, Wash, and Maine. We'll clear the area and be sure it's safe, then we'll call. Keep your radios on."

The three of them make the ride up in silence, only the creak of the lift, but when the door opens and they step out into Red Base, Maine growls. Sees it first.

Place is trashed.

Everything that wasn't bolted down has been turned over. Chairs, crates, all the Reds' footlockers. Maine’s duffel dragged out from under his bed and dumped on the floor. The couch in the main room on its back. Even Grif's TV has been pulled off the wall, the video game console pulled out of its spot, the power cord yanked free. The few equipment lockers have been broken open. Nothing in them to take. Everything already moved below.

The feeling comes over him in a slow heat, burning in his chest and curling his hands into fists and only when he feels black at the edges of his vision does he realize. Didn’t know how easy that would come back.

_Mine._

The place he lives now. The people who took him in, made him one of them. The team that accepts him, calls him _Red_ like them. Well, most of them anyway.

He exhales slowly, _one two three four five six seven eight_ and still all he can feel is rage.

The farm house.

Maine ducks out of Red Base and takes off up the eastern side as fast as his legs will carry him.

 

They ransacked the shack too. Can see it even before he gets there, a couple of the blue delphiniums bent by some asshole’s boots, tracks through the garden. Maine sprints with heavy footsteps, wheezing as he staggers to a halt by the fence, looking for flashes of rusty orange and red.

Ruby Duchess. Mimosa. Pecking around in the garden, clucking and ruffling their feathers and looking put out.

Maine ducks inside.

 

Inside is turned upside down just like Red Base. All the furniture cleverly fashioned out of supply crates and random junk, turned over and thrown around. Doc’s tea mugs on the floor. Least they’re stainless steel. Maine picks them up, sets the table upright, hears clucking.

Looks down. Strawberry Champagne has been hiding under the kitchen table. She clucks at him huffily.

Maine almost groans with relief.

The chickens. Worried about the goddamn chickens. This is his life now. But Donut would be crushed if anything happened to them. Doc too. They’re his friends. Like the Grifs. Like Caboose.

Friends.

If they'd been up here when the Hornet landed? If they'd been found? What then? Thrown in prison, shot against the walls of their own bases?

Donut and Doc, Grif and Simmons and Sarge, Tucker and Kaikaina and Caboose.

Can't let that happen. Can't let it happen to them.

 

He steps outside just in time to see a crate come hurtling downstream between the boulder and the canyon wall.

“ _Damn_ it!”

“Carolina—” Wash’s voice.

Takes a few hesitant steps. Just toward the northern S-curve of the stream. No farther than the edge of the garden fence. Don’t need to give them anything else to yell about.

“They _know_ we’re here, Wash!”

He knows the sound of force amps hitting metal. Another, bigger crate comes flying, hits the water with a heavy splash and tumbles end over end before coming to a halt against the stony bank.

Maine takes a few more steps. Crosses the stream, keeping the boulder between himself and Blue Base. It’s okay. No one can see him.

“We’re not safe here. _None_ of us are safe here!”

“Carolina,” Wash says in a lower voice. Can’t see him but he sounds close. They must be on the lawn. “Tucker and Caboose are already upset. You’ve gotta calm down.”

The silence is stony, and Maine almost holds his breath. Chest aches. Breathe.

A minute later, Carolina comes over the swell of the hill mid-canyon, leading with her head like a battering ram. Long, angry strides. In the distance, the stripped frame of the Pelican catches his eye, skeletal and in shadow.

He takes off after her.

 

Carolina comes to a stop past Red Base, on the western side, at the edge of the water. Her fists are still clenched and she looks like she’d like to kick something else into the water. Could if she wanted to. Lot of spare junk lying around. Sarge’s EMP-hog parked by the corner of the base, all covered in matte black Pelican hull cut and hammered to fit. They’re still filing down the rough edges, and it could use a coat of paint, but it looks good.

Carolina doesn’t kick anything into the water. Just stands, clenching her fists, and Maine watches her shoulders rise and fall heavily for a moment before coming up next to her, trying to make his footsteps noisy. Don’t want to sneak up on her.

Sneak up on her. Like he could ever. She must hear him. Doesn’t start when he gets close. So quiet, he can hear the whistle in his breath. Remember the bases all torn apart, the farmhouse ransacked, and feels that bone-deep anger still humming.

Even the canyon feels smaller now. Tighter. Less safe. Not the warm, sunny, easy-breathing place it has been.

“You okay?”

Carolina snorts. “No. You?”

Shakes his head.

She laughs hollowly and takes her helmet off. “I need to get out of here.” She scrubs her free hand over her face. Her hair’s falling out of its bun. “I don’t mean that. Maybe I do. I don’t know.”

Lets his breath out slowly.

Almost a relief to hear her say that. Haven’t wanted to admit it, that this place isn’t everything it should be. Peaceful, perfect, safe.

But it’s not. It’s not peace. Just… waiting. Waiting for something else to happen. Waiting to get caught, to be forced out, to fight. Waiting to fall out of his skin again, for reality to start pulling itself apart at the seams.

It’s not even safe. Not for any of them.

Not that he wants to leave exactly. Don’t quite want to stay either. Don’t know.

He rests a hand on her shoulder. She exhales.

“Thanks,” she says, just signing.

“What?” Signs it one-handed. She understands.

“You. Always…” Her hand hovers, trying to find the next words. Trying to find what she means. Drops her hand and speaks. “It was never a fight with you. You always just let me be. I never told you. How easy you made it. Just to exist near you.”

He wants to say, “You too.” Need two hands for that, and it seems more important to keep his arm around her. Instead he just squeezes her shoulder. Hope she understands.

She sighs, and leans in, and her breath feels more even.

He thinks of the Warthog again. Got an idea.

“Go for a drive?”

Carolina furrows her brow. Signs, “Where?”

“Nowhere. Out. Around.”

She makes a thoughtful noise. Nods yes.

 

He pulls out into the shallows to muffle the sound of the engine. Not like they aren’t going to notice. Hope no one worries. They’ll be back soon. Just need to go somewhere.

Get out of the canyon.

The way up is steep and rocky and the tires growl as they grab for purchase, sending gravel sliding away behind them, into the water. But the hog makes it up the slope and then they’re rumbling along the eastern cliff, the whole canyon spread below. To the east another canyon drops away, green stalks spreading in rows and rows from the uneven metal roof of the farmhouse, made out of pieces of shipping container and other junk. Looks small from above.

Everything looks small from up here.

Carolina sighs, and leans back in the passenger seat. She’s put her helmet back on. Colder up here at the higher altitude, even in summer. Forget how much warmer it is down in the canyon, a little oasis in the snowy mountains.

From up here, it still looks safe.

 

They don’t talk for a while. Maine can’t with his hands on the wheel, and Carolina doesn’t seem like she wants to. He heads northeast for a bit, half-circles the adjacent canyon and then brings them back west. Don’t want to go too far. Once you get really into the mountains, it all starts to look the same. Could get confused.

Out of nowhere, Carolina runs her hand over the dash.

“EMP on a Warthog,” she says. “It’s such a Sarge thing to do.”

Maine snorts. Nods.

“You know you don’t have to take orders from him.”

Nod. Not orders. Did it because he wanted to.

She shoots a glance at him, a tilt of amusement in her helmet. “And you know there’s pretty much no way this would be useful outside of a close-quarters ground engagement with another vehicle, right?”

Yup.

“Meant a lot to Sarge, though,” she says, her voice softening a little. “That was nice of you.”

He’s circled back west now. Past the north end of the canyon where the stream gurgles through its deep cut in the snow, pours over the cliff. Shallow enough to cross in the hog with a thump and splash. He brings them along the western side, past Blue Base and the crashed Pelican, down to the southern edge of the cliff where the lake spreads out below, nestled between the mountains.

Maine parks, kills the engine. Now he can talk.

“Car work was fun.”

She nods. “That’s good. I—I’m glad.”

They sit in silence for a while longer. She’s still unhappy, he knows that. Maybe no way to fix it without talking about it.

“They’ll come again.” Carolina looks at him blankly for a moment and he realizes he forget to set up his referent. Tries again. “Soldiers. They’ll come again.”

She sighs heavily. "Yeah. They will. And god knows what else they’ll do.”

“What do we do?” He likes the sign for that. _What-do_ , both hands low in _what_ position, O-hands palm up, tapping the index finger to sign _D-O_ in rapid succession. Easy to say, easy to read.

Carolina’s quiet for a moment.

"Got an idea," she says, finally. "Little recon mission. Just you and me. You up for it?"

He nods eagerly. Be good to do something useful. Even better with her.

"Good," she says. "I want to go up north. Look for a way off this planet. For all of us."

 

“You want to do _what?_ _”_ says Wash.

Carolina crosses her arms. “Getting offworld is our best shot. _This_ is our best shot for getting offworld. And better sooner than later.”

Wash stops short of arguing. They’re convened mid-canyon, just the three of them, in the shadow of the eastern wall by the stripped Pelican.

“What about your ride?” Wash says. “I mean, I assume you had a plan for leaving, once you’d. Ah. Completed your objective.”

“Yeah,” Carolina says, dropping her arms and looking distinctly uncomfortable, “not really.”

Wash cocks his helmet. “Nothing?”

She shrugs. "I got dropped off. For a price. Let's just say this system is super off the grid now. No one's supposed to be coming out here that isn't military."  
  
Wash cocks an eyebrow. "So how _were_ you going to get back?"  
  
"Figured that was a problem for future me."

“Well,” says Wash.

“Yeah,” Carolina says.

They look at each other for a moment. Not quite staring each other down but something like it. That same understanding passes between them. Not so hard to watch, now.

"Be careful," Wash says. "Please."

 

Feels like deja-vu, a little. Loading up the Warthog with weapons, ammo, some food and water. No one protests when Maine takes up his weapons again, snaps his Magnum to his hip and sets his rifle in the back.

Everyone comes out to see them off. Even the Blues.

"Hey, do us all a favor!" Tucker says. "Try not to get killed? You Freelancers are the worst about that."

Maine makes a face at Tucker. Makes the motion of two fingers stabbing him in the chest. Tucker snickers.

"Pretty good at coming back, too," Wash says wryly. He claps Maine on the shoulder. "They'll be fine."

“Yeah well,” Epsilon chimes in, appearing over Caboose’s shoulder and looking at Carolina, “you better be.”

"You too," Carolina says. "All of you. Stay sharp. Stay safe."

 

He keeps his helmet off as they roll out of the canyon to the south through the shallows, circling back up the steep slope to head north. Carolina at the wheel this time. Air's crisp, cold, feels good on his face, even as they hit level ground and Carolina picks up speed. Have to helmet back up as it gets colder to the north. Might as well enjoy it now. He sneaks a glance at her, and her face has relaxed into a slight smile, green eyes bright and red hair blown back from her face. There's a crinkle in the skin at the corner of her eyes he never really saw before. Maybe wasn't there before. Her hair's a different color at the roots, too, the red growing out.

Wherever she wants him, he'll go. Always. One of those signs he can see in his head now, when he thinks it: index finger up, circling, palm facing inward. Always.


	16. Remember

Carolina's very quiet as she pulls the Warthog to a stop by the crashed ship, towering above them in the snow. It's colder, seems darker too, the sun hanging shrouded in cloud above the icy cliffs to the southwest. Everything's bathed in sort of a low, silver-blue light. Feels like the edge of something. In too many ways to name.

She hasn't said a lot the whole trip, but even her body's quiet now, the slope of her shoulders and her posture when she walks uncertain. The whole shape of her apprehensive.

He feels it too. Here they are at the edge again, both of them.

 

Carolina walks up to the Pelican first, badly landed, cockeyed in the snow on its one remaining wing. Puts her gloved hand on the hull where the vehicle number is. Wonder if she's thinking about _their_ Pelican, their pilot. Niner they all called her, Maine doesn't even know her real name, but she and Carolina were pretty tight. Maybe she knows.

He doesn't know the sign for "pilot," so he taps her shoulder and spells it to her. Almost goes blank on P there. Why it looks like an upside-down K he doesn't really get. Not every sign makes sense. Suppose they can't all.

Carolina's chin drops slightly, watching. Harder to sign with helmets on, without faces. But Carolina understands.

"She made it out," Carolina says. "Niner. She… I guess there's no reason I can't tell you now. She picked me up. After." Her gaze turns to the cliff, and Maine's breath feels knocked out of him, a crushing feeling in his chest. "She wouldn't take me back. Got me out of the system instead. I didn't get why. I was—" She looks down. "I was pretty fucked up. I didn't really know what I was doing. Still chasing Texas. Still thought it all meant something."

"Where did you go?"

"Different places." She looks down at the ground, rubs the back of her neck, oddly self-conscious. "It was—it wasn't a good time for me. There’s not much about those two years I'm proud of."

He nods. Maybe one day she'll tell him about it.

"You came back."

She nods again. Doesn't say any more though. Taps her fist on the side of the Pelican and turns. "We should get inside the ship. See what we can find."

He gestures. Points. He knows the way in.

Her head lifts with surprise, but she nods, and follows.

"You've been in there since," she says, as they hike up the slope of snow drifted over the hull, toward the gaping hole leading onto the bridge.

He nods.

 

Carolina stops once they're inside, taking a good long moment to survey the abandoned bridge. Wonder what she's thinking, what memories come back. Fighting Tex, maybe. Both of them battering each other as the ship barreled through orbit, fighting for an imagined finish line now forgotten. What were they fighting for? He can't even remember.

He can, though, when Tex's memories surface. Overlaid with his own, different angles, _black armor motionless by the console_ and _You can't win, Carolina, but you can come with me,_ and _Your name is Alpha. You're Church._

Church.

Found him too late. Found him too broken to help.

"Maine." Carolina's hand on his shoulder. He's standing at the console, hands on the frosty black surface. Don't even remember getting here. "Maine, what is it?" Worry in her voice. And he can't explain. Don't even know if he should say her name. But he has the words, at least.

"Tex. I remember."

Carolina tenses, going perfectly still.

"Oh," she says, voice carefully neutral, and it hurts.

It hurts. He wants to tell her. Wants to _explain_ , explain how it all happened and what Tex did for him and how much he owes her, even though she's gone and he can never pay it back. How she tried to help. How she did, in the end. Help Carolina see that.

And he can't. He doesn't have nearly enough words.

 

He watches Carolina shift into mission mode, into Squad Leader mode, and he helps as much as he can, finding them the quickest path down to the hangar via the now-functioning elevator

"Surprised there's any power still," she murmurs, as they descend past decks and decks.

He taps his breastplate.

"You turned it back on," she says, surprised again. "When were you here?"

"After water."

"Alone?"

Nod.

“How long?”

“Weeks.” Don’t know exactly. Didn’t keep track.

She lets out a long exhale. Frustration. He doesn't understand why, until she speaks again.

"I was here," she says. Shakes her head. She's signing what she can now, though there are a lot of blanks. "I was _right here._ Only place I knew to go, to pick up a trail." She shakes her head again. "I checked the bridge, FILSS was gone, nothing was functional, so I… I just moved on. Found Wash and the others just south of here." She snorts. "They were at one of the old sim bases. Playing Capture the Flag in the snow."

Maine snickers. But Carolina's gaze drops.

"If I'd searched the ship I might've found you then."

Maine shrugs. Not her fault. No way she could've known.

The elevator comes to a halt and she straightens her spine again. "No chance of getting the _Invention_ off the ground, but there might still be a Prowler down here. Something with FTL. Stealth would be ideal, seeing as they're still dumping troops on this planet, so there have to be ships coming through orbit." She nods. "Let's move."

 

The hangar level is startlingly bare.

"God," Carolina murmurs, as they pace through one empty docking bay after another, "where _is_ everything?"

_shipboard operations have largely migrated to a groundside facility_

Ah.

"Command."

"Command," Carolina echoes. "Damn it. I was _there,_ we were _right there_ , I should have looked for vehicles."

Maine gives her a look.

"Well, I _could_ have guessed we'd need transport when this was all over!"

Head shake. “Didn’t know.” Being too hard on herself.

Her shoulders slump. "I know, it's just… it's because of _me_. Because of _us_ that they're in this mess in the first place. Mostly me. If hadn't dragged them into my mission, they'd still be flying under the radar. Wash too. Now we're all targets. If it was just me…"

She trails off, sighs.

"Come on. Let's finish sweeping this level, and then go back up and see if we can find anything else useful."

 

Hangar deck's a wash. Even most of the Pelicans are gone, and there's certainly nothing with FTL. Nothing to get them off this planet, out of the system.

Where would they go? Don't think even Carolina knows.

Suppose they could retreat back to the ship, if it came to that. Shelter, supplies, defensible position. Not the best option, but it could work. For a while.

 

The elevator carries them up to Engineering, and the monitor flashes SHISNO in green as the screen comes to life. Carolina does a slight double-take, shoots Maine a glance, but doesn’t ask. Couldn’t really answer that one. It’s buried somewhere, under Gamma’s mechanical laughter. Not a thread he cares to follow.

With the ship’s AI pulled, there’s not much to be found in the computer beyond manual controls of its functions. Whatever didn’t go with FILSS would’ve been wiped from the system. He knows that. He knows Carolina knows that.

Lets her look anyway. Lets her scroll through power, life support, security, and finally tap the screen dark with a quiet sigh of resignation.

She nods toward the elevator without a word. He follows.

 

They rise past deck after deck, cryo and maintenance and waste disposal and crew decks and Maine thinks again how big the ship is, how much of it they never saw at all. Hundreds of crew for fifty agents. No, forty-nine. And less than thirty by the end.

Some of those early washouts might’ve dodged a bullet, maybe. The ones that didn’t die.

"Sorry," Carolina says, finally. "I guess coming here was a dead end."

Head shake. Not a dead end. Not for nothing.

She shoots him a glance. "We can still sweep the other decks for anything useful, but..."

"Good being here, with you."

"Oh." She looks down. Suddenly awkward. Almost shy. "Yeah. It's… good being with you, too."

She looks up.

"C'mon. There's somewhere I want to go."

 

She leads, he follows. An anchor, a beacon, grounding him to what’s real. What’s now. The threads of memory still unravel with every turn, every step. Alpha Squad's residential wing stretches before them, and he feels them pulling again, all of them at once.

But he's following Carolina now. Know where she's going, too.

Maybe following her own ghosts.

She stops at the door, looks at the nameplate for a moment. CAROLINA across the door in sleek etched letters. Puts her hand on the door, like she doesn't quite believe it's real, and sighs.

The door slides open.

 

Forgot about her unmade bunk. The clothes fallen on the floor. Carolina lets her breath out in a huff when she sees. She takes her helmet off and sits down gingerly on the bed, smoothing the sheet slowly with her hand in a motion that's gentle, almost hypnotic, and makes him ache.

Just being here makes him ache. But in a completely different way than before.

She looks up at him then. Still got his helmet on. He thumbs the release at the back, pulls it off. Lights have come on, can see without the dark vision. Even though he's been going without it most of the time for weeks in canyon, still—with her looking at him like this it feels absolutely naked.

He takes a seat beside her. The bed creaks under his weight, the weight of both of them in armor.

She reaches for his hand, and his breath almost stops. Black-gloved fingers curl around his. His heart pounds.

"Crazy," she says, signing with one hand. “Coming back here."

He nods.

Carolina surveys the room again. The lines at the corner of her eyes seem more visible in the cool light.

Maine squeezes her hand, gently. She looks at him suddenly, eyes wide.

"Sometimes I just." She shakes her head. "I can't believe you're alive. I feel like I'm gonna wake up and it won't be you. But it _is_ and I…"

The way she's looking, it's like she's waiting for something. Waiting for some sign from him, something she can't figure out how to ask, and so he squeezes her hand again, once, twice in a row.

She blinks, and squeezes back, one, two. And then she lets out a long breath, releases his hand and reaches up to lay her hand against the back of his head.

He really is going to stop breathing. Stop moving. Anything. Just don't want her touch to go away, to stop.

He feels that too. That he'll wake up in the morning and she'll be gone. That it'll all be a dream, that it won't be real. Real like the heat of her palm on his scalp, like the bright green of her eyes. Real like this, like something so much stronger and brighter and more intense than a memory. Real enough to stop your breath.

Her hand moves slowly, gently down his jaw.

"You're alive," she whispers again, so soft. Like she needs to convince herself.

He signs, "You too."

Drops his eyes away from hers and lets her touch linger, savoring every second of it.

 

Before they leave the room she goes digging through her footlocker. Goes through her old things. Pulls out a black tank top, some gym shorts, a sports bra. Frowns. Puts them back. Takes them out again, sets them in a neatly folded pile on her thigh. Frowns.

"Take if you want."

She sighs, frustrated. "I don't know. I don't know if I want."

Fair enough.

She slides her black box out from under the bed. Runs a hand over the lid. Maine sits, back against her bunk, waiting. Trying not to watch too close. Let her take her time. This is for her, not for him.

But he can't help watching as she opens the box, lifts out a coil of soft white nylon rope and with it, the metal figure eight. Rubs her thumb over it thoughtfully, then looks up at him, suddenly. Catches him looking.

A brief ghost of a smile crosses her face, and she tosses the rope and the 8 on the pile of plainclothes. Turns serious again just as quick.

"Anything you want from your room?"

Shakes his head. Got everything he wanted before he left the last time. Only then he remembers the knife, the one with the heart-shaped cutout from Longshore. Still got that in his bag, out in the Warthog. Should give it to her. Forgot all about it until right now.

"Anywhere else you want to go?"

He thinks. Nods. One more place.

 

The locker room is more damp than he remembers, and there’s a low buzzing noise he doesn’t think was there before. Coming from the overhead lights, maybe. Or the leaderboard, bright blue on the wall.

Carolina walks down the center row of lockers, Alpha Squad’s row, and comes to a stop in front of the leaderboard like that’s where she was heading the whole time. Maybe it was. Following her own ghosts.

He feels it too. Three threads of memory—no, splitting into five, fiery red and slate blue reflecting off her face, her eyes, blending into the colors of her armor and her bright hair, all sharp edges and whispers, _together_

and Wyoming’s knowing stare, adjusting the scope on his rifle

and Maine on the bench, alone.

Feel something cold, hollow in his chest. But at least that’s his.

“He lied to us, you know. About what we were. About what we were doing.”

Maine turns.

She’s still looking at the leaderboard, eyes narrowed. Shakes her head. “Even now, I don’t know everything he lied about. I still go over things, sometimes. Trying to figure it all out. You know that moon drop, the one where they sent me in to help you?”

Takes him a minute. Lot of missions and some of them come up from multiple angles now, but that one—yeah, he remembers. From before. No AIs yet. So it has to be his. Maintenance tunnels, elevator shaft. FAILURE: ALL OBJECTIVES.

“I never could figure that one out,” she says, finally. “I went over it later, and Wash was right—your intel was bad. But there was no reason it should’ve been. I thought you guys just screwed up. Dropped the ball. Connie especially. She should’ve been prepared for that security.” Carolina’s jaw tightens. “And I gave her hell about it. Only—” She stares dully at the board, where Connie’s name isn’t. Where Connie never was again, after that mission. “I had FILSS pull records on that base later, compared them against what you all had in your mission logs. It was… off. Just in small ways, but… enough to matter. The maps, the security… it was like someone had changed things. I just couldn’t figure out why anybody would do that.”

Finds himself staring at the board, right alongside her. Like it might have the answers.

He doesn’t know. Not really. That was before Sigma. But it lines up, somehow. Feels familiar.

_Take these, Sigma. Improve them. Do whatever you like. You have complete creative freedom._

_Thank you, sir._

_The schematics you gave me, they_ _’re so complex… I just need more time._

What even was the objective? Can barely remember, just that they didn’t get it. Some weapon prototype. Something hardly seems worth the effort, in hindsight. Haven’t thought about that drop in a long time. Just another fuck-up. Happens. But putting it together, it feels too familiar. Something set up, manufactured to fail.

Don’t have the words yet to say what he thinks, but from the look on Carolina’s face, she already knows.

So he just nods, and hopes it’s enough.

 

He shows her the way into Armor Processing instead, and Carolina runs a cleaning cycle on her suit. Takes off her armor plating, unseals her suit and climbs out of it without blinking and he remembers her looking away when he changed inside Red Base and fuck maybe he shouldn’t be looking either.

He turns around.

“You don’t have to do that,” she says, amusement in her voice and immediately he feels ridiculous. Stupid. It’s not even about what they’ve done together—the locker room, the bathrooms, were all communal. Everybody in everybody’s business all the time. Just how it is in the military. Isn’t one member of Alpha Squad he didn’t see bare-assed naked.

And Carolina was never shy.

He turns back around, gives her a sheepish smile. She just makes a playful face at him, hangs her suit up in the machine, closes it and punches the button for the cleaning cycle. Walks back out into the locker room, to her own locker where she finds an old t-shirt and shorts, and pulls them on. Get the feeling that’s more for his benefit than for her own.

She walks out to the training floor. Sort of knew she would. It’s also worse than before, more wet streaks down the far wall and the floor wet. Right. Left the power on all this time, life support keeping the inside of the ship warm. Going to get pretty soggy in here, given enough time.

He feels the overlay of a dozen memories, training routines, moving through one another out of sync, so much it almost makes him dizzy. But Carolina’s looking up now.

Up at the observation window.

“Wyoming,” she says. “Did it ever seem like he was always watching the rest of us?”

“He was.”

Carolina gives him a startled look.

“Watched us. His job.”

She lets her breath out slowly. “I always got the feeling he knew more than the rest of us did.” She adds, with no small trace of bitterness, “Even me.”

She glances over her shoulder, like she’s looking for something he can’t see. Then back to him. “The recon mission. Before Longshore. Remember that?”

He nods.

“South was right. The Director sent your team to a dead end. He knew they wouldn’t leave the planet. He knew exactly where we’d find her.” Carolina’s eyes drop, and there’s guilt in the lines of her face. “Told me your team were more likely to be—compromised. Emotionally. South, Wash, you. Because you were all friendly with her.”

 _You would_ _’ve been friends._

She looks guilty. Like she did something wrong. But she didn’t. An order was an order. Wouldn’t he have obeyed it, too?

 _Would_ he have been compromised? If it were his job to find a traitor, take her alive, bring her in? Wouldn’t he have done it? Probably.

Wouldn’t Wash? Wouldn’t South? Wash, yes. South—

well. He didn’t know her. Not really. Even Delta didn’t. Not enough time.

Compromised. Don’t know how he feels about that. Not Carolina’s fault though.

She turns, slowly, and pads on almost silent footsteps back into the locker room. Down the Alpha row again. He follows her gaze to where it lands: the locker caved in by her fist. Connie’s locker.

He touches her shoulder, just lightly to catch her eye. Makes a fist, a punching motion.

She snorts. “Yeah. That was me.”

“Saw you.”

She blinks.

“I should have told you then. Didn’t know what to say. Sorry.”

Somehow, he expects her to be angry. Instead she just looks confused, for a moment. Lost. Staring at something he can’t see, maybe something not even there anymore.

And then she cracks a smile.

“Hey,” she says, pointing. “It’s our bench.”

Their bench. She’s right. It is. The one she had him on, the first time. Sliptime, late at night, after a long sparring match.

The end-of-cycle beep from the machine sounds right about then, and Carolina heads back into armor processing to retrieve her suit.

He hangs back in the locker room. Doesn’t watch her suit up. Sits on the bench, just thinking, and waits for her to return.

 

“We should grab some supplies,” she says, coming back in fully armored except for her helmet, held against her hip. “And then move out. ’Less there’s anywhere else you want to go?”

He shakes his head slowly. Nothing else to see here really. Just more dead ship, more training rooms and lounges and hallways full of ghosts. As much for her, probably. Outside, not inside, but still there. Nothing more to do.

Still, there’s a part of him that doesn’t feel ready to leave. But he can’t explain it, or what he wants to do instead.

 

They skip the medbay, for which he's relieved. A mess in there. Don't need her seeing that. Don't need her putting together how he almost died drowning in his own lungs. Don’t need to see it again himself.

Carolina’s thinking what he’s thinking. Food. What Doc said—no more shipments from Command. The crops not enough to feed eleven mouths. She’s right about that. Staying in Valhalla isn’t looking real good, but wherever they go, they’ll have to eat.

Still. Sad to think about the crops if they do leave. The garden. All that work for nothing. And the chickens. Don’t know what would happen to them.

Lights blink on in the mess when they enter. On one table, an empty chocolate shake can. Whoops. Forgot to throw it out.

Throw it out. Stupid. Like waste disposal’s still running, like someone’s there to take out the trash.

Carolina’s gaze goes to the can instantly. She looks at him. He nods.

Back in the kitchen. Forgot how much of a mess he left storage, boxes pulled out and left open to get what he needed. Meal drinks and instant noodles and things he could make easily. Strange now, coming back with her at his side, all the evidence of him living here alone left out for her to see.

She kind of stops short in the doorway just looking, taking it all in. Like a moment left frozen. She must be feeling it too. But she doesn’t say anything.

Not a lot of room for cargo on the Warthog, but they find a crate small enough to cram in front of the gunner and pack it full of instant and ready-to-eat stuff, and lots of protein shakes and bars. They pack it so full he has to sit on the lid so Carolina can snap the closures shut. They lift it together—he could probably do it now, but Carolina takes the handle on one end, and so he grabs the other, and they haul the crate to the elevator.

 

The sun is creeping down toward the hills as they disembark from the dead ship. They set the crate down once they get out through the hull breach and Maine just gives it a shove and it goes sliding down the long icy slope of the hull, tumbles end over end and lands in the deep snow. They hold hands as they make their way down to flat ground. Still seems darker than it should be, now he’s more or less gotten used to the long daylight of arctic summer. The sky looks a denser gray than when they went in.

Can see Carolina's eyes going to the white edge of the cliff again, even as she tosses her duffel bag in the hog, then hefts the crate into the back without his help.

"Looks a lot different now," she says.

He nods.

She snorts. "Wash said you all busted a big chunk of that cliff off."

He snorts in turn. Not him. Not Wash. “Tex.” Or… a Tex. Someone like her. Not real sure about that part.

He can feel Carolina tense up, even from a few feet away. Something cold going up around her again.

Takes a minute to catch her eye.

"Tex." It's a quick finger-spell. "Helped me."

She stops.

"Before. She helped me."

Carolina stares for a moment, comprehending.

Takes a step toward him in the snow.

"She helped you," she repeats, signing and speaking.

He nods.

"She tried to _kill_ you. You and Wash. Didn't she?"

He takes a deep breath. Nods. "Second Tex—yes. First Tex—no.” Setting up his referents, left side and right side. Keeping a hand on everything. Donut was right about that. Doesn’t take long for things to get complicated. “She helped me."

“You mean—”

He taps the side of his helmet. “Here.” Don’t know how to explain it better than that. There’s so much. So much he doesn’t have words for yet.

"Ah." Carolina goes quiet for a long moment. A heavy quiet. Can feel her turning that over. Taking it in.

"I don't," she says finally, haltingly, then stops again. "I can't. It's not _fair_ for me to ask you questions you can't answer." She sighs. "You don't owe me answers anyway."

He shakes his head. Touches her shoulder to get her to look up. She still forgets sometimes.

"Ask."

She swallows.

"Please."

She looks down again. Looks up. Stares out across the silver-white expanse of the arctic sea.

"I want to understand what happened to you," she says finally. "But I don't… I don't know if you can even tell me that. I don't know if it's something you could ever talk about. I don't—"

He reaches for her hand. She stops.

"Sorry."

She shakes her head sharply. "No. Maine, no. I _know_ it wasn't you, I—I knew it even back then."

She's stopped signing, her hands flailing in frustration, then balled into fists.

"It was my fault. I gave you my AI, I let them do that to you. Let _him_." Her voice breaks. "It was _me._ And then I got so… I was so distracted, I didn't _watch_ you. I didn't take _care_ of you and _who was supposed to if not me."_

Her voice is a low growl, desperate and angry. She stares down at the snow.

"It was my fault," she whispers. "I let you down."

He puts his hand on her shoulder. Shakes his head. No.

Taps to get her to look again. Signs it, emphatically. " _No."_

She looks at him, and her chin tilts up. Almost defiantly.

"I didn't tell you. Didn't know how." He fumbles for the words. "Didn't know what was happening." Chest tight, but he has to get this part out. "Trusted him. Though he would help."

"Sigma, you mean."

He nods. The wind’s picking up, whistling around his helmet, in his ears, and he shivers, remembering. Won't ever forget the look on her face as she fell, and the worst is—it's Sigma's memory, not his. Was already pushed down so far, he only saw it in flashes.

A long arc through the white air, blood in the snow.

Sigma saw her face. With the memory comes that terrible sense of grim resignation. Not quite satisfaction. That'd be bad enough, but somehow—

It's not _worse._ It's just. Sigma knew. Knew he was doing something terrible. The worst thing.

Just thought he had no other choice. Or told himself that over and over until it made sense.

_You would've lost him. God, you fucking idiot._

That's one _why_ he doesn't have to ask. He knows why. Carries it in every memory. Nine threads of _why_ , all screaming at once.

He hates Sigma, he supposes. That would make sense. For stealing his body, stealing his life, but most of all for what he did to her. Don't hate him less because she made it. No thanks to him.

He taps her shoulder to catch her eye. Don't have the signs for this yet but he can make the motions for it. Hand to hip, drawing an imaginary gun, aiming for the sky. Fingers curved into a claw, catching. Hand over hand, climbing. She watches him intently.

"You," he signs, finally. And spells, "Iota."

She stares for a long moment, snow swirling around her helmet.

"You remember," she says, stunned.

Taps his helmet. "Left here. When I fell. Understood."

Carolina nods, slowly. "It was Iota. Both of them, maybe. But mostly her. I might've made it anyway," she adds, and he can't help smiling to himself, of course she would have. She's a survivor. Like Wash.

Maybe even like him.

"Right before—before they were pulled, they shot this _image_ into my head. More than an image, an… impulse, I guess. Got my grappler out fast, before I could even think. Caught myself. Climbed out." She nods. "So she remembered, and then _you_ remembered."

He nods.

She tilts her helmet, some kind of recognition dawning on her for the first time. "You remember things that—I remembered? From when I had them?"

Nod. "Some."

She lets her breath out slowly. "How… _many_ people's memories do you have?"

"A lot."

She nods. "But you know which ones are yours?"

"Yes. Now." Mostly.

She drops her gaze again, then remembers, forces herself to look back up. Reaches up. Lays her hand against his helmet, along his jaw.

There are signs for what he needs to say. Has the words. But sometimes there are better ways. Things they both understand, always have, still do. And it's easy somehow, standing here in the snow, beside the dead ship, the long drop of the cliff on one side and their loaded Warthog on the other. Easy to take the half step in toward her, and she does the same, and he sinks, just to one knee, but it's good enough. Enough to rest his head against her breastplate, feel her arms fold around him. Nothing very soft or comfortable about it in armor, all the plating knocking together, but it's still good. It's enough.

He doesn't realize he's closed his eyes, really, until Carolina gives him a gentle tap on the shoulder, and he opens them. It’s growing rapidly darker, too fast to be sunset. Flakes are drifting in front of his visor, sticking and melting in little drops.

"Storm moving in," she says, still not letting go of him for a moment, he notices. "We should get going. We can make it to Sidewinder, stay the night."


	17. Speak

It's coming down hard by the time they reach the little U-shaped valley, and windy too, driving the snow in a sharp slant across their path and groaning against the side of the Warthog. Carolina gets quiet again on the way, but this time, he thinks, it's for the driving. Visibility's bad as they get deep into the mountains, but that dot on their shared HUD map guides her.

"This is where Niner found me," Carolina says, suddenly, raising her voice over the howling of the wind. They’re just south of the canyon now, in the space between the two arms of the U. "I'd been out here for three days, give or take. Still chasing Tex. Or so I thought. Never found her. She was long gone." She shakes her head, snorts. "God, I was fucked up. Was lucky I still knew my own name."

She pulls the Warthog back into motion, leaning forward looking for the narrow, steep pass down into the valley. "Pick a base. Red or Blue?"

"Red." He is a Red now, after all.

 

They clear Blue Base first. Approach from opposite sides of the canyon, meet in the middle, weapons drawn. Overkill probably, there’s nothing on radar, but it's fun, being in mission mode together again. He likes that. Even likes playing stealth. Moving in shadow, waiting on her orders. Sweeping the base room by room, lower level, upper level.

No one there. No _dead Blues in the snow._ Recovery’s been here, then. Cleaned house. Hopefully means they won't be back.

They clear the tunnel between the bases, and then Red Base. Empty too. He remembers the Sidewinder Reds, a little, though their names are hazy. One of them feels more familiar, like someone he actually knows, or should know, but he can't place it and he doesn't feel like going digging.

Better things to think about. Like food, like getting settled in for the night. Like Carolina.

 

Back on the ship, got thinking about Longshore again, about CT, and the knife. Had it in his bag the whole time, never thought to take it out when they packed for the trip north. Good a time as any.

He takes it out, upstairs, while she’s down below taking stock of the base’s supplies. Turns it over in his hands. No rust. Could probably do with a honing, but it’s held up pretty good these two long years.

“I radioed Wash,” she says, and he hears her voice before he sees her, coming up the ladder to the upper level where the bunks are. “Told him we’re snowed in but safe, not to worry. Said I’d let him know when we were heading back out.”

She reaches the top. Glances at him, raises an eyebrow.

He turns the knife handle-out, holding by the spine. She tilts her head, comes over. Takes the long knife by its black handle. Maybe she won’t remember. But he sees some spark of recognition on her face.

“Longshore.” Have to spell that one. Takes a minute.

“I remember.” She runs a fingertip along the side of the blade. “You had this all this time?”

Shakes his head. “Ship. I kept it for you.”

There’s a certain sadness in her eyes. Thinking of Connie, maybe. But she tests the knife’s grip, flips it up in the air and catches it cleanly by the hilt. Smiles. “I like it. Thank you.”

 

Carolina strips down to her undersuit, and so he does the same, piling up their armor plate by the back wall. It's not quite civvies, but it's comfortable, padding around the concrete floor in just their sleek black suits.

They heat up some packets of freeze-dried chili for supper, the just-add-hot-water-and-wait kind. Not bad. Could use some hot sauce, which they don't have. But it beats MREs. Carolina breaks up a vacuum-sealed packet of crackers into hers, stirring and stirring them in the little steel bowl. Maine mixes up a packet of berry-flavored drink mix to have with his. Carolina takes lemon-lime. Tastes just like those sugary Kool-Aid knockoffs every outers kid knows, the ones everyone calls "juice" but aren’t. Full of sugar, but being made for military this kind does give you electrolytes. Better in the field than straight water.

He notices Carolina watching him eat. She watches him pretty much all the time though, so he doesn't think much of it until she says, "So when did you start eating solid food again?"

He thinks. When he was under, mostly protein shakes. Soft foods sometimes. What they knew he could eat.

When was the first time he—oh.

The brick. The box.

He shudders.

"Prison." Have to spell it. Forgot to get that one. Have to ask later.

Carolina swallows.

"How long were you in there?"

"Don't know."

She blinks. "No one ever told you?"

Shakes his head.

Carolina stirs her food a little more aggressively. Her face has gone blank, lost in thought. It's a good minute before she takes another bite. Chews. Swallows.

"Wash said he was in for five months after his trial. A month before that. Said you never got a trial."

Shakes his head. Don't remember one. Remember the box. Before that, hazy memories of bright lights, white suits, needles. Crawling under his skin. Trying to take him apart. Making him sick.

Don't think about that. Need to eat. He forces another bite down.

"You know that's illegal," she says. "Imprisoning you without due process."

He snorts. Illegal. Maybe on the inner colonies that matters. Maybe on Earth.

Her voice softens. "You didn't have anybody to fight for you."

Shakes his head. Not even himself.

Don't want to think about that. Think about her instead.

"You. Where did you go?"

"Different places." What she said before. Her eyes grow distant, like she's looking at something far away, and for a minute he thinks maybe that’s all she’s going to say, but then she continues. "What colonies were left, always mercenary work to be found. Extra planetary defense, like it was gonna matter." She snorts. "Made the rich people feel safer, though."

He snickers. Their eyes meet, and there's a smirk on her face that mirrors his own.

"Why did you come back?"

Might know that answer already, but they haven't talked about it. Like to hear it from her.

Carolina's face turns serious again. She doesn't speak for a moment, scraping her last of her chili up from the metal bowl and swallowing before she answers.

"After the war… when it was all over, they started rounding people up. 'War criminals.'" She makes air quotes around the words. "You know, because suddenly that's a thing. Like that doctor who they say made the Spartans." Maine raises an eyebrow, but she doesn't elaborate. "I was monitoring a few military channels, picking up chatter. Rumors. Found out there was an APB out for—the Director."

The Director. Dead green eyes, pistol fallen on the floor. The slightest pause before the says the words.

He signs, "Family?"

Her eyes widen. Brow furrows in disbelief. "You _knew?_ From the AIs, or…?"

Shakes his head no. Could've picked it up maybe, from things the Twins left, but no. Not from that.

"Underground. Dead. Your eyes."

Her whole face seems to collapse. For a minute he wants to take every word back. Feels like he's done it wrong, should've kept quiet. Just let her tell him, not said a word.

But she looks back up at him. "You found the Offsite Storage Facility." Blinks. “Of course. FILSS. I should’ve put that together, I just never…”

Nod.

She swallows. "We tracked him there. Me and Epsilon."

"Killed him."

She shakes her head no. "That was the plan, but…"

 _Self-terminated._ Right.

She sighs. "It's complicated. He's… he was my father, Maine. I guess you figured that part out."

He nods. Wasn't sure exactly, but something like that.

"No one was supposed to know. You know what they'd say. Special treatment and all that garbage."

He snorts. Special treatment. Harder on her than anyone. He's sure of that.

He's waiting for more of the story but Carolina leaves off there, getting up abruptly and going to rinse her bowl, and he doesn't push it further. It's okay. She'll talk more when she's ready to. Even this much is a lot.

 

They move upstairs after they eat. Takes him a while to remember what's missing, a shimmer of green light in his head that he thinks is Delta, at first, a shadow of his, but no. A teleporter, blackened and broken, its alien glow broken and sputtering. Wrong base. That was Blue. Wasn’t there when they cleared it, though. No vehicles either, now he thinks of it. Everything stripped, the bases nearly gutted, just a hollow in the bedrock. Left the food behind though. That gives him a laugh. Meals Rejected by Everyone. Even Recovery.

Carolina's pacing, puttering. Looking for something. "Ridiculous," she mutters, "you _can't_ have an outpost this exposed in a place like—oh, here we go." On the outer wall, she's found a control switch on a covered panel. She flips it and there's a harsh grinding sound—"Sorry," Carolina says, wincing—and then a steel bulkhead slides down, closing the long exposed strip of window and shutting out the wind and snow.

She nods with satisfaction. "Much better."

 

He's always known Carolina's thinking face. Can tell when she has an idea she's turning over, when she's uncertain about something. Chews her lower lip, worrying it raw. Makes him want to touch, smooth away the rough edges bitten into her skin. Ease the pressure of her teeth before she makes herself bleed.

He slides closer to where she's sitting, back against the bunk, index finger flicking to scroll on her datapad, teeth still troubling her lower lip. Wouldn't have dared do this even a week ago, but coming up here with her…

Well. Some things feel different now.

He strips his gloves off first. Touches the bare pad of his thumb lightly to her lip, just below the edge of her teeth.

She stops. Looks at him, eyes a little wide. Caught in some kind of thought, the slightest flush in her cheeks. Maybe just warming up from the cold. Maybe more.

She's the one who does it. Catches his jaw with her hand and draws his face to hers. Still feels right that way, even after all this time. (Index finger up, palm-side in, moving in a circle. _Always.)_

Some things don't change, maybe. Even when you lose each other for years, lose your own hands, your own body, almost lose the breath out of your lungs and the beating of your own heart, almost lose your own mind in the cavern of your skull. Almost lose everything but don't.

Something returns, circling back again and back again.

 _Always_.

Her mouth finds his, closes the space between them like it hasn't been a day and like it's been forever. Not soft. Every bit of the force he remembers, the force that seizes him and could knock him flat on his ass if they weren't already sitting, half-turned to face each other, and god she just kisses him and kisses him, his lip between her teeth now and the edge of her tongue brushing his and now it is soft. All softness inside the hard edges. Her hand on his jaw and his thumb still lingering on her chin.

He almost gasps for air when she pulls away, eyes wide, and then they close again and she tips her forehead against his and lets out a long sigh.

Don’t want to move, or break away, but when her head lifts away from his she just slides her hand down the back of his neck and pulls him close. He curls up easily against her, sliding down to rest his head against her chest, the dense mesh of her undersuit warming against his cheek. Her hands on him, one arm wrapped around his shoulder holding him, keeping him close. Other hand gently rubbing his scalp. He sinks into her and the feeling of her so _close_ , so real and alive.

Face feels wet. Crying again. God damn it. Never used to be like this.

He feels a shudder pass through Carolina's body then, and a sound almost like a sob.

He's never seen her cry. Probably isn't now. But she holds him tighter than death, and he can feel her hands tremble.

So much he wants to say. So much trapped inside his silent body that he can't get out yet. So many words his hands still have to learn. But he's learning. His body belongs to him again. Tex was right.

He made it out alive.

And she did too.

 

He might've drifted off for a little while, curled up against her. When he drifts back to awareness she's stroking his scalp again, gently, and his neck, rubbing lightly just below the base of his skull, carefully avoiding his neural implant port. Idly, he wonders what they ever did with the chips they took out of him. Not that it matters. Nothing left there.

Hope they smashed them. Burned them.

He makes a soft noise in his throat and shifts against Carolina, snuggling up to her.

She lets out a quiet laugh, from above.

"You know I always liked this about you."

He makes a questioning rumble.

She pets his head and he nuzzles against her. "Just… this. This part." Her lips press lightly against his scalp. "Wish I'd let you fall asleep with me more. Back then. You look so… soft, when you sleep. Trusting." She laughs wryly. "I mean. You let me tie you up and do whatever I wanted to you, but like. I don't know. Watching you fall asleep."

He nods against her breastbone. It's the truth. He does trust her. Always has.

He feels her her chest sink beneath his head as she lets out a long sigh. Heavier. "I fucked up so much, Maine. Including us."

Needs his hands to say "Me too," but he doesn't want to move to free them up. Too comfortable. Grunts ambivalently instead.

"You don't have to say I didn't. I _did."_ Her voice hardens. "You really think he would've gotten ahold of you the way he did if I'd been paying attention to you? If I hadn't— It's _my_ responsibility. I was supposed to _watch_ you. Make sure you were okay. And you weren't. And I let you down."

He stops himself short of protesting. Feels like she needs to say it. They both go silent for a minute or two. Still holding each other. Maine takes a deep breath, and untangles himself from her. Sits up so he can look her in the eye, and use his hands.

"My job to say no. My job to say stop. My job to say not okay."

She holds his gaze, swallows visibly.

"Should have talked to you. I fucked up too."

Carolina starts to shake her head. "I wasn't exactly there for you."

“You weren’t okay either.”

She freezes. Swallows. Looks away. Looks back. “No. I wasn’t.”

"Say we fucked up. You. Me. Both. Better?"

Carolina chews on her lip. He waits. Lets her think.

"I guess I can live with that assessment."

He snorts. She cracks a smile.

"Glad we're doing this. Talking. It's not…” She looks down, rakes a hand self-consciously through her messy bangs. “I've never been good at this."

He makes a face at her. She laughs again. "Okay. Fine. _We've_ never been good at this."

"Didn't need to be."

Her brow furrows. "I guess. Yeah. We didn't have to then."

So she feels it too. How much harder it is now. How much more complicated. Not the same people they were. Carolina the Squad Leader, Maine the team heavy, shooting each other looks across the lounge they could pretend nobody else saw. Kissing in the showers, fucking in the locker room, getting tied up in her quarters late at night. Stupid, reckless, _simple_.

Maybe it wasn't even simple then. Maybe just easier to pretend it was.

"I don't mean it's—" She frowns. Bites her lip again, searching for the words. "I mean, it _is_ hard. But I don't mean I don't want to try."

He nods hard.

"I should’ve come back for you,” she says, her voice going tight. “For _everyone._ I should’ve come back so much sooner, but I—I didn’t think there was anyone to come back for. Or that’s what I told myself. So I ran. And I just kept running.”

She feels his protest before he finds the words. Takes his hands in hers before he can say it—that it’s not her fault, that no one could blame her for running, after everything that happened. After what his hands did.

But she needs to say this, and so he lets her.

"Finding you alive… you, and Wash, it's… it's way more than I ever hoped for, and—" her voice breaks only slightly, and it still almost breaks something in him, hearing it, but he doesn't flinch. Doesn't look away. “I don't want to screw everything up again. I almost did already, I… I almost lost Wash all over again and it was my own damn fault. I can't with you. Not again."

He takes his hands back.

"I want this. You. Us. I want to try."

She nods, and when her hands move, her signs are strong. More confident than before. "I want to try, too."

 

The storm hasn't let up when they finally peel themselves off the floor and climb down to the lower level for some more food. If anything, it’s worse now, snow still falling and the wind's still howling and driving the snow in the entrances at the far end of the base, pushing a chilly draft through the whole lower level. Carolina parked the hog just inside the base, and good thing. Be buried in the snow if they'd left it out. Even as it is, the snow's drifted deep at the open entrance, spilling inside over the frosty floor.

Floor’s warm in the back, though. Some kind of heat in this base. None of the northern outposts seem to have lost power. Probably geothermal up here. Just drill right down.

There’s a hot plate to boil water and they mix up some instant noodles in hot, salty broth. Eat them sitting on crates, far at the back of the base where they get the least of the draft. Steam rises from the hot plastic bowl as he holds it close to his face with his gloved hand. Takes the first bite too fast, burns his tongue, makes a face. Carolina’s eyes meet his, and her lips curve up. He wrinkles his nose at her. She slurps when she eats her noodles, and after, she looks contented. Even happy.

 

She kisses him again, when they’re back upstairs and just sort of lying on each other, on a mattress pulled off one of the too-small bunks and laid on the floor. Maine stretches out on his back with his heels hanging off the mattress, feeling comfortably lazy and Carolina's draped over his chest. She sits up, leaning against him and thumbs through her datapad for a bit, then tosses in on a bunk and stretches out on him, chest to toes.

She stretches, arching her back and wiggling her hips and pointing her toes, and then relaxes. He does too, breathing evenly, blissfully under her. The deep pressure of her weight pressing into his body, anchoring him to the floor, feels so good, even better than the gel layer of the undersuit. Solid and warm. Keeps him feeling real, alive, even when this all feels too good to be true. Almost dreamlike. But too real to be a dream.

She must see him blissing out under her weight, because after they lie there for a while she picks her head up and looks at him, a little smile crossing her face. Shifts higher on his body and kisses him. This one not so startling. Warm and slow and full of intent.

It's almost foreign, the faint stir of arousal. Been so long since he felt that, or even thought about it.

"Warm enough to get out of these suits," Carolina says, "if you want."

He'd never have asked, could never have fucking asked—even now, taking the lead is an idea he rejects almost out of hand. Never feels right. He just doesn't… do that. But it’s more than that. Four weeks and he hasn’t asked, what are we now. Wouldn’t let himself think they could be that, again. Never mind ask.

Have to figure out how to ask things. Not just say yes, no, stop, go. Not just wait to be told. File that away for later.

For now, all he needs to say is yes.


	18. Trust

There are scars on her body he doesn't remember. And even her body he remembers in layers—the deep admiration he knows is his own, following every taut stretch of muscle and compact curve, and the critical gaze he knows for sure was never his. Least it's easy enough here to tell them apart, push the wrong one back. The one that _scrutinizes herself in the mirror thinking about body composition, mentally revising her meal plan and adding extra reps to her next workout._

Wouldn't wish the bitter tangle of memories on her, ever. Still though. Be nice if she could see herself the way he did. The way he does.

But you aren't supposed to have all these angles in one head, all knotted up and ready to split you into nine and eighteen and dozens of different people, ready to steal your mind and your body from you, time bleeding away while you fight to remember who you are and what the fuck you're doing here.

No one's supposed to have that. Not even for good reasons.

 

He goes to his knees automatically when he's naked. Doesn't even think about it until he’s there, face to face with the soft curve of her belly. Carolina stops moving for a moment, and he almost looks up, but then she steps in close and holds his head against her, fingers cradling his jaw. He closes his eyes, stunned into reverent silence at the feeling of her skin against his cheek. God. Her skin.

Feels her belly move with the quick huff of a laugh.

"Whatever you want,” she says.

He wants. He wants more than he's thought about, more than he had any idea he wanted. Wasn't thinking about this, back in Valhalla. Just happy to be near her. Happy to have her alive.

Now he has _whatever you want_ laid out for him and it's overwhelming. Almost too much. His face is pressed against her skin and he can _smell her_ and he doesn't _need_ anything, doesn't need anything more than this, could live with so much less. Fuck. She's _alive._ What more could he need.

_Whatever you want_ is too much. He's always been better at just giving in. Letting go. Letting her bind and touch and carry him into total submission. Trusting her to do whatever she wants.

He wants her to do that. Whatever she wants.

He takes her hand in his, and gives her two firm squeezes.

There's a beat before she squeezes back.

Then she moves away, and goes to her bag.

 

Guess he knew she was thinking about it, when she collected the ropes from her quarters. Still seemed like such a distant thing, though. Something he wasn’t allowed to hope for. Not yet.

A lot can change in a day.

She comes back, drops to her knees in front of him. Drops the rope in his lap, smooth nylon soft on his thighs. The figure eight in her hand. Silver shines through the black finish where rope and cable and his own hands have rubbed it away. Just seeing it makes him want to touch, makes him long for that familiar shape and texture in his hands. For all the memories that follow that shape, for everything it means.

She lays her hand against his jaw, tips his face up to look her in the eye. “Are you sure?”

Nod.

She swallows, silent, almost imperceptible.

“Okay,” she says, almost in a whisper, and presses the eight into his hand.

 

He remembers this, so much of it just like before. Her hands moving slowly over his shoulders and down his arms, gently and carefully drawing his hands behind his back. Making that first tie, the double-cuff around the wrists. The first double-strand passed around his shoulders and across his chest, and back around to lock into itself. Her fingers dressing the line, evening the pressure, slowing a little as they cross the still-bright scars on his chest. Doesn’t hurt anymore, not on the surface. Healing unit’s done a lot. Always have the scars, though.

The figure eight sits in his right hand, fingers curled around the smooth metal warming to his touch.

Carolina takes the second pass across his chest, reaching around him and he feels the slight pause, the moment of being completely encircled in her arms.

He feels a pause, and her breath on the back of his neck makes him shiver.

The rope settles into place.

The restless energy under his skin doesn’t seem different than before. Not at first. Don’t recognize it for what it is, the slight prickle at the back of his neck even as all his limbs relax, as he starts to sink under the rope’s familiar hold.

The second pause comes, and lasts too long.

He should’ve felt it already. Should’ve _seen_ it. He’s right on the edge of sinking, and he feels, like the drop in your stomach just before the fall, how _easy_ it would be. Just to let go.

Faintly, he remembers it wasn’t always that easy.

The stillness is overwhelming, suddenly. Something frozen, stuck. His pulse loud in his ears, his breath catching. _Her_ breath quiet and yet so loud, suddenly, in the silence. It takes a minute to pull himself back, exert the will to focus his eyes, turn his head, look over his shoulder.

Sees her swallow. Someone else might not see it in her face, maybe. The almost imperceptible tension in her jaw, the slightly unfocused look in her eyes. But he knows. He knows that look from memory, the fist smashed through a locker door like paper and the face in the mirror that isn’t his.

Seen this from both sides.

He feels the cuff still binding his wrists then, and he opens his hand and the eight drops to the floor with a dull clatter.

Carolina blinks.

Her hands remain steady as she works the knot loose without a word, and the rope falls away. But when he turns to face her and she swallows again, he knows the look on her face, even as she doesn’t quite meet his eyes.

Chest feels tight, and suddenly every possible thing he could do feels wrong. Never got this right before. Missed the moments when she needed him to do something, anything, and now he still doesn’t know what the right thing is. How to help.

Thinks of taking her hand. Thinks better of it, and holds out his own hand instead, palm up, waiting.

She exhales, sets her palm against his, and rakes her other hand through her hair.

“I’m sorry,” she says heavily. “I didn’t—”

She breaks off. He waits.

“I,” she says again. Stops again. Her hand tightens in his, steadying itself.

She looks at him then. Not quite sadness, but something afraid, helpless. Something he understands better now. From both sides.

He needs his hand back to sign. It hurts to let go.

“It’s okay.”

He face screws up for a moment, taut like she’s holding so much in. Wish he could tell her she doesn’t have to do that.

“It’s okay.”

When he puts his arms out tentatively, there’s no pause before she leans in, and then they’re holding each other, naked skin on skin and Carolina’s breath by his ear, growing quieter.

Know they need to talk about this, but not yet. Just work on being okay, for right now.

 

Carolina’s breathing easier after a minute, and they stretch out on the mattress together again, the rope kicked off the side. Maine drags a blanket off the nearest bunk, scratchy old military blanket but it’ll do. They curl up under it and it’s nice. Cozy. With the bulkhead closed, the upstairs is warming up pretty good.

After a little bit, Carolina kisses his jaw, gently.

“Sorry,” she says, lightly. Maybe a little too lightly. “Don’t worry about me. I’m just being stupid.”

Maine pulls back enough to show her a frown. Don’t have hands free to talk. Don’t like that, though. Whatever she was feeling, it was real. Not stupid.

She sighs. “Okay. Not stupid. I just.”

He waits. Combs his fingers through her hair, gently, avoiding the neural port hidden under it, at the base of her skull.

“Euuughhh.” She groans. “ _God_ , I hate talking.” He snorts, and she makes a face. Kisses his nose. But her face turns serious.

“I—think I messed up,” she says quietly.

Furrows his brow.

“I rushed you.”

Gives his head a slight shake. Didn’t feel rushed.

She sighs, and he can feel the frustration in it. Not at him. Something else. Something she’s trying to say. Can’t figure out how.

_I don_ _’t want to screw everything up again_. Stupid. She _told_ him. Told him she was scared. Should’ve known right from the start.

_I can_ _’t with you. Not again._

Holding her gaze, he points, just barely touching her breastbone. “You. Not ready. Okay.”

She blinks, understanding, and her cheeks flush slightly.

“Yeah,” she says, flatly. “Okay. I rushed me.”

Nod.

She swallows. Closes her eyes. Snuggles up to him again, tucks her face against his cheek. Lets out a long sigh, and he draws his hand down her back, tracing the path of her spine.

“This is nice,” she says softly.

He rumbles softly in agreement. More than nice. Never need to move. Never need more than this. They’re close and warm and he’s still maybe half-hard but doesn’t feel the need to do anything about it right now, just listen to rhythm of her breathing against him. And for once, no question in his mind whether it’s real. Haven’t felt this solid in a long time.

 

What stirs him is the growl of his stomach, Carolina’s breath of laughter against his neck, and a gentle nudge in the ribs. He grumbles as they peel apart from each other. Wiggles the fingers on his left hand, started to go a little numb and prickly. Carolina sits up, leans one way and the other, cracking her back. “Snack?”

Snack sounds good.

They pull their undersuits back on. Still too cold to be naked downstairs, and the storm shows no signs of letting up anytime soon. He’s a little fuzzy on how long they’ve been here. Maybe check his HUD clock when they go back up.

Or maybe not. Doesn’t really matter, does it, if they’re safe, warm, have food and shelter and each other.

Downstairs they dig out some hot cocoa packets from the ration crates, and some of those shortbread cookies in their vacuum-sealed packages. Maine gets the water boiling on the hot plate and they mix up the cocoa in two steel cups, and carry their snacks upstairs where it’s warmer.

Carolina drinks hers fast. She’s mixed a packet of instant coffee into her cocoa and the scent of it is strong, dark and bittersweet. Cookies are good, though the crumbs are real dry and get stuck in his throat easy, making him cough, and when he coughs too hard he gets that sharp pain in the left side of his chest, so he settles for dunking the cookies in his cocoa before eating them and that helps. He burns his tongue on the first sip. Worth it though. Sweet and hot and comforting. Feels like home, somehow. He feels the sign in his head, now, when he when he thinks it. _Home_ , where you eat and sleep.

 

The light’s changed, he realizes, when they climb back down with their empty mugs. It’s darker, and not just from the storm now. Not all the way dark, not like real night, but when he goes to the entrance to look out, it’s all deep gray. Snow seems to have slowed a little, but still coming down.

He feels Carolina besides him, announcing her presence with a hand in the small of his back.

“Snow might be tapering off,” she says. “We should be ready to go when it stops.” There’s a brusqueness to her voice, that Squad Leader edge. Doesn’t mask the hint of reluctance. And he knows she’s right. Wash and the others will be waiting for them.

Still. Can’t say he’s ready to go home yet.

 

Carolina passes the time puttering, cleaning up from their meals and putting everything back the way it was on the lower level. Brushes the blown-in snow off the Warthog, double- and triple-checks their fuel, their supplies, their weapons. Goes back and digs through the base’s food supplies again, pilfers what she can fit in the Warthog alongside what they took from the ship. It isn’t much. Just isn’t that much room. He sees her take the remaining cocoa packets, the instant coffee.

Feel like he should be helping, but he knows better. She just needs to be moving. Be doing things.

He goes upstairs. Not so strenuous climbing that ladder as it would’ve been, a few weeks ago. Getting his core strength back, his balance. Not in the kind of shape he used to be, but still. Feels good to be getting better.

Figure he can make himself useful packing up their things, keep out of her way. Not much to pack though. Carolina’s kept her bag neat. Just the rope lying on the floor off to the side, and the figure eight.

He picks them up, coils the rope neatly around one forearm. Doesn’t match the other coils. His arm’s longer than hers. Oh well.

Ties it off neatly, tucks it into her bag along with the eight.

 

When he comes back downstairs, Carolina’s got the knife from Longshore in hand, practicing some moves. He stops at the bottom of the ladder, watching, as she finishings the combination, step and sweep and twist, and three quick strikes to disable her imaginary opponent.

She finishes, relaxes her stance, and shoots him a smile. “I like it. Good balance. Little longer than I’m used to.” She traces a finger through the heart shape cut out of the blade. “Nice custom piece. Could do some real damage with this.” Her eyes turn away. “Used to run knife routines with Connie. Never told her, but she made me better.” She lays the knife gentle in the back of the hog, alongside their rifles. “I should have. Told her, I mean.”

Maine steps in closer, rests a hand on her shoulder.

Carolina tugs her hair tie out, combs her hair back with her fingers and re-ties her ponytail. “Melee was always my weakest. But you know. Gotta be versatile.”

He can’t help smiling at that. _Weakest_ for her is still pretty damn good.

“Wash is good.” Thinking about that slash across his collarbone. Wash was always pretty good in a knife fight. Even better now.

She shoots him a glance. “With knives? Yeah, I know he used to work with CT a lot, too.”

“Train with him?”

She gives him a half-smile. “Yeah. I could. I should.”

 

The snow tapers off a little, but never fully stops, and it picks up again in the next hour or so as their little canyon lightens again, back to that eerie white daylight filtered through dense flakes. Wind’s picking up again too. Can hear it howling again, rattling against the closed bulkhead up above.

Imagine being assigned here. Left for months at a time, weathering the storms and waiting for Freelancers. The names of the Sidewinder Reds are still fuzzy in his head. Hope they made it home.

“So much for that,” Carolina says, standing in the threshold peering into the whiteout, flakes sticking to her undersuit for a second or two before they melt into nothing. “Guess we’re gonna be hanging out for a little longer. I’ll call Wash.”

 

“What’s your status?” Wash says immediately, soon as Carolina gets him on COM. “You guys okay?”

“We’re fine,” Carolina says. “Still snowed in, but we’re safe. What about you? Any more raids while we’ve been gone?”

“Not even a flyover,” Wash says. “It’s actually been pretty quiet. Knock on wood and all that.”

Carolina snorts. “Right. Anyway, sorry about the delay. We’ll be back as soon as we can.”

“Roger that,” Wash says. “Keep me posted, okay?”

“Will do. Carolina out.” She closes the channel. “Gonna be a while. We might as well get some sleep.”

 

Doesn’t seem odd at all, back upstairs, for her to haul a second mattress off one of the bunks and lay it beside the first one on the floor. He joins her in collecting up all the blankets and pillows to pile on top of them. When she strips out of her undersuit without a word, he doesn’t blink, just does the same.

They settle in side by side, close enough to touch. Carolina stretches out on her back, but her hand finds his under the blankets. The sound of the wind grows distant, the sound of her breathing evenly by his side.

Don’t know if he’ll sleep, but it doesn’t matter. This is more than enough.

 

He does sleep, though. Heavily, too deep to remember dreaming. Must’ve been more tired than he thought.

Waking, it takes him a few minutes to remember where he is. Somewhere warm. Under blankets, on a mattress on a concrete floor.

And Carolina next to him.

She’s rolled over on her side, back to him, but still close. Still asleep, snoring a little, bright hair lying messily over the pillow. Makes him want to reach out, bury his fingers in it. But don’t want to wake her. Instead he just rolls onto his side, watching the slight movement of her back as she breathes.

Her snoring sputters and she swallows, snorts, and rolls over onto her back, throwing an arm over her head, almost planting her elbow in his face. Think she might just fall back asleep. But her eyes flutter open and she grunts, rubbing the sleep from them. Turns her head to look at him, cracks a smile, pulls her hand lazily to her chest to sign, “Sorry.”

This time he kisses her.

Maybe wouldn't have, if he wasn't so comfortable and just barely awake. Definitely would've stopped and thought too hard about and probably not done it at all, if it was yesterday.

But he does and she returns it easy, all soft and sleepy. Pulls him in close, presses up against him with the whole length of her body. Hands on him, touching his chest, his back, his hips. Touch deliberate, even as her mouth on his is still lazy, slow.

He’s already half-hard just from waking up that way, but he’s going to be more than that pretty quick. Content just to kiss her, though. God, it feels nice.

She pulls back for a moment, touching her forehead to his. Brings her hand back up to lay against his jaw. “This okay?” she says, voice still husky with sleep.

Nod. So much. Better than okay. He almost laughs at himself. Forget what to do with his hands. Not used to—well. Not used to having them free. He can touch her, hold her close. Like she’s touching, holding him.

Think of other things he’d like to do, maybe. Not sure if she wants that. But then she presses in tighter, grinding her hips against him. Shifts position and he feels his dick slip between her thighs, rubbing against her skin and her breath is hot on his mouth and he can feel the heat between her legs and he’s almost gasping against her mouth as she kisses him, harder than before.

Know what he wants to do now. But how to ask. Not used to that. Used to waiting, being told, doing as he’s told and enjoying it.

He focuses on kissing her instead, while he thinks. Caresses her hipbone, brushes his fingers lightly over the lower curve of her belly. She squirms, breathes a laugh against his mouth. He slides his hands down her body, wanting to memorize every centimeter of her skin in his palms. Buries his face in the curve of her neck, pressing kisses along the dip of her collarbone. Her breasts fit nice in a palm. Nipple soft in his mouth. Carolina arches into him just a little when he swirls his tongue.

Stupid. Just _ask_. Not like he can’t figure this one out without a sign.

He looks up and her eyes meet his, questioning. Drops his eyes pointedly, licks his lips, and looks up at her again.

She raises an eyebrow at him. He cocks one right back. There’s a warmth in her cheeks as her lips curve up into a hint of a smirk, and she nods.

He starts to shift position, then thinks better of this. Hard to do this flat on the floor. Bad angle. Want to be able to take his time.

Rolls into a sitting position, nods to the nearest bunk with a mattress still on it.

 

Much better like this. Carolina on her back, looking as relaxed as he’s seen her lately, maybe ever, a warm flush in her skin and a playful smile on her lips. Maine on his knees, where he likes to be. Following the curve of her belly and her hipbones with wet, open-mouthed kisses.

When he nuzzles at her inner thigh, she swings her leg over his shoulder, and her hand comes to rest on his head.

Ah.

Really did mean to start slow, but it only takes the lightest pressure of her hand for him to give in, happily, covering her cunt with his mouth.

Funny, more than anything it’s the taste of her that brings it all back, memory coming in strong and bright, making _now_ a little brighter and stronger and more real. Her clit tight and swollen under his tongue, sharp salty wetness on his lips. Gentle pressure but firm. Been a long time, but you don’t really forget how. At least he hasn’t.

Hasn’t forgotten. If anything, he remembers—

he remembers more. Remembers how this feels for _her._ What Maine looks like on his knees, _beautiful_ , her hand on his head and the intense heat of his mouth, his tongue on her—

Carolina arches into him a little, her breathing tight, heavy already.

Slow. Slow. Focus. Don’t rush. Take his time.

Want to enjoy this. Want _her_ to enjoy it.

She’s never been loud. Military school, she told him once with a wry smile—he remembers that too, little pieces of it, _Cadet Church!_ and the hustle of early morning drills. Hardly any privacy. Getting off in near-silence was something you just learned to do if you wanted to get off. Made him snicker.

He never minded. Liked listening for every hitch of breath, the way she’d twitch or tense. Loved when she’d finally let him hear her moan. Didn’t have to remember being her to know what she liked. She let him know. Just had to pay attention.

She digs her heel into his back now. Arches up off the bed into each stroke of his tongue. Mouth open, head tipped back. Even alone out here in the snowy wilderness, though, no around for kilometers, she’ll make him work for it.

She always did. And he always earned it.

Not in any hurry though.

Almost forgets, again, that he still has his hands. Can cradle her hips, stroke her thighs, as his tongue circles her clit and laves up and down her lips. Feel how her thighs tense up when he goes fast, how they relax a little when he eases up. Lots of tongue, careful with his lips. Have to watch the angle of his face, try not to let his next-day stubble scrape her skin.

Her fingernails trace circles on his scalp, and then he sucks gently on her clit and she moans. So quiet he could’ve missed it if he wasn’t listening but then he hears it again, a longing, wordless breath of pleasure. And her hand tightens on the back of his head.

He slows down a little. Soft strokes with his tongue. Dragging his knuckles lightly along the crease under her thigh. Feel that shiver roll through her, the taut breath she releases as he rubs away the tickle with his thumb. Gives his tongue a break, smearing careful kisses over flushed skin and the edges of her thighs. Carolina lets out a shaky sigh, strokes his head.

Moves in again. Could hold out for longer, but he’s never liked teasing. Not with her. Just want to be good for her. Make her happy.

Her hips arch again, when he sucks lightly and then harder on her clit, and when he presses the flat of his tongue to her, she gasps and pulls his head in tight. Her thighs tenses. Free hand curls into a fist. His own pulse rises, and even grounded in the real and the now he can almost feel it with her, the exhilaration of her coming up over the edge, throbbing against his mouth, finally crying out in unrestrained pleasure.

He doesn’t stop until she shudders and taps sharply on his head. Rests his wet cheek against her thigh, a little out of breath himself. Got a slight twinge in the left side of his chest. A little bit of wheeze. Not as bad as it would’ve been a few weeks ago.

Good time for this, then.

“Fuck,” Carolina breathes, finally, the word soft in her mouth.

Smiles. Think he did all right.

She’s sitting up, suddenly, both hands on his head, fingers massaging his scalp and then moving down to rub his neck and shoulders, and for a moment he closes his eyes, just leaning his head on her thigh, her other leg still resting on his shoulder. Comfortable, happy, just soaking in her touch.

Then her leg slips off his shoulder. Bare foot against the right side of his chest.

Pushing him back down onto the mattress on the floor.

 

She doesn’t just knock him flat, like she could. Being careful still. He goes down easy anyway, and Carolina drops onto him in one fluid motion, straddling his hips and closing both hands over his wrists.

His breath catches and Carolina’s grip tightens, and she snickers, pleased. “Same old Maine.”

He tries to huff. It comes out half a groan.

She leans down, covers his mouth with hers, bites his lower lip and shoves her knee up between his legs, giving him a sharp reminder of how hard he is—wasn’t really thinking about it, while he was focused on her, but it’s been there. Grinds her knee against his balls in that way that hurts a little, but good, flooding him with a desperate ache.

All the force of Carolina when she decides to do something. Almost forgot what it felt like to be the full center of her attention. To be caught up in that force. Almost.

Nice to know some things don’t change. Not how it feels to be held down, even without rope. Not how good it feels to give in to her.

His eyes close out of habit, and all those sensations get sharper, more intense, her hands gripping his wrists and her knees hugging his hips and the heat he can still feel between her thighs. He doesn’t really sink, not like this, but it’s just nice not to be in control. Strange, maybe. You’d think he’d want to be in control. Maybe what she was worried about, earlier.

Most of the time he does. Know he wants to be _Maine,_ whatever else he has to carry around with it. Know being Maine is the only reason to still be alive. It’s just a lot. A lot to think about, keep track of. Sorting out _Maine_ from the ghosts, sorting out _real_ from shadow and memory. He gets tired.

Feels good to let go. When it’s safe. When it’s her.

 

Carolina shifts slightly, getting comfortable, and he feels the wet heat of her cunt rub against his dick and fuck, she has to be doing that on purpose. Lucky he doesn’t come right there. Not gonna last long, he knows that, and there’s a comfort in knowing he’s not in control of that either.

He can be good for her. That’s all he needs.

One hand releases his wrist, comes to rest on his jaw, and he opens his eyes. She’s watching him, of course. Used to that now. Searching his eyes. Looking for something.

When he gives her an easy smile, her face relaxes and her mouth curves up before she leans in to kiss him again. Harder now, all teeth and tongue, so he’s breathless to keep up, and gasps when she pulls away. Out of focus he’s aware she has her other hand between her legs, and then suddenly around his dick, warm and wet.

Her strokes are long, agonizingly slow, pausing on each drag when she reaches the tip, rubbing little circles under the head with her thumb and he’s already coming apart, trying to keep his hips from jerking up into her touch. Curls his free hand to a fist, still where she positioned him. Bites his lip, groans half-swallowed. All the time his eyes locked to hers. She won’t let him look away.

Of course it feels good. So good. But just as good the weight of her body, her hand still on his wrist, and that something he still can’t quite put into words. Something about how it feels to be under her, how Carolina still feels a little larger than life. Maybe even more now.

God, he’s close. She’d never have let him come this quick before. Have to tell her that later, that she doesn’t have to go easy on him.

Later.

Carolina presses her knee against his balls again, draws a groan out of him and smirks.

Okay, maybe “easy” isn’t the word.

But there’s a way she looks at him, even now. Searches his eyes, her smirk softening to a pensive shape. There’s a gentleness in her touch, even when she picks up her pace sharply and he’s breathless again, gasping with wordless pleasure building to a peak, and even through the storm of sensation he knows that look.

She wants to take care of him. Make him feel good. Just like he wanted for her. And right now, feels okay to let go and let her. All he has to say is yes.

He’s close, really close, but it’s the slight squeeze of her hand around his wrist that sends him over the edge. Even then it almost takes him by surprise—no, not the right word. Just takes him, the orgasm rolling up over him like a wave, beyond his control, that feels like it could push him right under.

Carolina’s hand releases his wrist, and he blinks, hazy with pleasure, as she rests her weight on him. Drops kisses along his jaw as he catches his breath, sinking into the floor slack and spent and comfortably heavy. “Good,” she whispers softly in his ear, and it’s all he needs.

 

They curl up for a few minutes after, and it’s nice, but he can feel Carolina’s restlessness in her body, shifting position every thirty seconds, and when she grunts and peels herself off him he can’t really be disappointed. Not much could knock him down from his high right now.

Carolina doesn’t suit up to go downstairs, just throws on a pair of sweats and a tank top from her bag. He really should clean up before he gets back in his undersuit but he’s still feeling relaxed and kind of lazy, so he just stretches out on the floor, thinking. About Valhalla, about the ship. About today. About everything that’s happened.

She’ll tell him if they need to get moving.

But she comes climbing back up the ladder a few minutes later, a couple of MRE packets in hand. “Still coming down out there,” she says, settling cross-legged on the floor. “Hungry?”

Nods. Can always eat.

 

Breakfast? Lunch? No idea what time of day it is, but the food’s edible. Nothing to write home about. Macaroni and beef, one of those mostly flavorless but serviceable menus. Mostly, he’s glad to get some liquid in him. Didn’t realize how thirsty he was. He drinks his lemon-lime drink mix too fast to taste it. Carolina drinks her more slowly.

She goes downstairs again, after they eat, checking the weather he figures, and comes back up. Messes with her datapad a bit, then settles with her back against the wall, gathers one of the coils of rope into her hands. Unties it and lets it fall loose in her lap, takes one end and starts pulling the length through one closed fist. Inspecting, feeling for snags or tears or breaks in the core. Still in good shape, seems like. Those synthetic ropes hold up well. She rubs its smooth bite between her thumb and her fingers, folds it into knots and then undoes them. It’s neat to watch, and he gets a little mesmerized by the movement of the rope and her hands.

Know what she’s thinking about, but it’s okay if she doesn’t want to talk. Working it out in her own way.

He doesn’t ask questions, instead slides up beside her and lays a hand on her head, raises an eyebrows. She makes a pleased noise, shifts to turn her back to him and he tugs her hair tie out gently and buries his fingers in her hair, rubbing her scalp with his fingertips.

He likes the sounds she makes when he hits a good spot.

Her hair’s down below her shoulderblades, cut in long layers that he gathers up gently in his hands. She always wears her ponytails low, covering her neural port. Maybe that’s why. Never thought about it.

She doesn’t tense up, when his fingers come close. Goes a little bit still, maybe. Keeps pulling that rope steadily through her closed hand.

He lets her hair down again, falling soft over his fingers, and feels her relax as his hands go to work on her scalp again.

 

After some time Carolina sets the rope down in her lap, swallows the last of her lemon-lime drink and sets the cup down with a purposeful clank on the concrete floor, and turns to face him.

“So,” she says.

Maine smirks, raises an eyebrow. Carolina flushes.

“Don’t give me that look.”

He raises the other eyebrow. She snorts a laugh. “Stop it.”

Waggles them up and down.

“Stop looking at me like you know what I’m going to say!”

He sticks out his tongue.

“God,” Carolina mutters, rolling her eyes with obvious affection. Sighs, not displeased. Gives him a crooked smile. “You.”

Point to chest, eyebrows up. “Me?”

“You,” she says firmly, signing back. He snickers.

“Okay, smartass,” she says fondly. Gathers the rope in on hand. “Want to try again?” She coils the end around her hand. “You can _always_ say no, you know that right—”

“Yes.”

“Yes you know, or yes you want to?”

“Yes. Yes.”

She lets out a quiet laugh. Drops her eyes to the floor. Looks up. She’s smiling now.

“Okay.”

He puts a hand on her knee. “You?”

She raises an eyebrow questioningly. Damn it. Need more words. Have to make do with what he’s got.

“You can say no, too.”

She blinks. “What?”

“Before. You were scared. Needed to stop. You need to tell me.”

Carolina opens her mouth. Closes it.

She’s quiet for a minute, thinking. Puts a hand on his chest, traces the periphery of the scars. “I know, I… I can never really understand what happened to you. I hope someday you can tell me more, but I'll never _know_ it like you do. What I do know…"

She swallows, looks down for a moment and then back up.

"I know you didn't have much choice. I know you haven't had a lot of choices lately."

He thinks about that. “More than before.”

She looks surprised. A little relieved. Nods, like she’s thinking that over. “I just had to be sure you could say no. Tell me what you wanted and what you didn’t. And I—” She swallows. “I realized I wasn’t sure, and. Yeah.”

He nods. “I can. You too.”

She lets her breath out slowly. Leans forward to let their foreheads touch again, rests her hand on the back of his neck. He does the same, sliding his fingers under her hair.

She kisses him, soft and slow. Real slow. Real nice. Doesn’t pull away for a good minute, either.

“I’ll try,” she says. “I will.”

“Me too.”

She leans, reaching into her bag for the figure eight. Runs her finger around it, takes his hands and lays it in his palm, not letting go right away.

“You’re sure?”

He gives her a look and she snorts a laugh, and kisses him again.

 

Suppose he can understand why she was worried. Nothing he wants to do less right now than say no, as her hands guide his wrists behind his back again and slowly, carefully fold the rope around them. The snug tension as she binds him slows his breathing to a peaceful, even rhythm. Feels something in him center, pull deep to the center of his chest. All the pieces of him that try to pull away, pull him out of his body. All the angles that are wrong, all the threads that aren't his. It all pulls in and down to that single point at the core of him.

Deep breath, feeling the pressure against his chest.

Her movements feel easier, now. Enjoying herself. Taking her time, letting the pleasure of anticipation build and hum under his skin.

He only pushes a little against the ties, just to feel them. Funny, there's still that little surge of adrenaline that kicks up when your brain realizes your body can't move. The little thrill of helplessness pulsing through your veins. He sinks so easy now, though, slipping into a warm and comfortable haze. Still aware of everything happening, still holding tight to the figure eight. But sinking. Mostly he's just focusing on the pressure against his skin, the feeling of being held tight, held together, safe and secure.

Going under without losing himself.

Her hand curls into the tie, knuckles rubbing up against his spine. “Deep breath.”

He inhales deep in response. The ache when he breathes deep is mostly gone, now that his ribs have healed. Still get pain if he coughs, or takes a bad hit. Not like it was before. Can get a full breath, or as full as it’s going to be. Might never get the full lung capacity back in the left side. But he can breathe.

He can breathe, and her fingers tap out the count on his skin.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight.

She folds her arms around him. Tucks her chin into the curve of his shoulder. Enveloped in warmth, he lets out a soft sigh. Can feel the smile on her lips without looking.

“I got you,” she whispers. “I got you.”

He tries not to shiver as her hands leave him, and she rises. Her palm circles the crown of his head as she paces around to the front of him, slowly and deliberately. Letting him watch the pad of her bare feet on the floor. She kneels, lays her hand against his jaw.

“Look at me,” she says, her voice low and warm.

Already looking, but she means in the eyes. Her thumb caressing his lips, her eyes bright.

"How we doing?" she says.

He nods, nuzzles into her hand. Good.

“Good,” she says, and he can hear the pleasure in it.

He gives her a lazy smile. She caresses his face, runs her thumb over his lower lip. Her hand moves down, along the side of his neck, fingertips bump over his collarbone and then her hand is on his throat and he can feel his own pulse pounding against her fingers.

He almost stops breathing.

“Breathe,” she whispers, but soft. So soft. Her hand firm against his throat, no pressure, but still intense.

Her hand shifts, palm slipping away from his Adam’s apple and her fingers dragging across his throat in a slow, deliberate arc. Touching each gnarled bullet scar in their path. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. Eight shots that should’ve killed him. Not the first or last.

Her hand slides around the back of his head, rubs his scalp above his neural port. A soft smile tugs at her lips and for a moment he feels almost weightless, lost in her touch and her eyes looking at him with the same kind of wonder he feels, every time he looks at her and thinks: she’s alive. She’s alive, this is real.

She’s alive, and as long as she wants him, he is hers, he is hers, he is hers.

 

“What’s it like?” she says.

They’re curled up under blankets again, Carolina at his back, one arm wrapped around him. Nestled in her arms, he feels utterly comfortable and calm, and probably close to drifting off to sleep.

But she has a question. He grunts, rolls over to face her so he can sign.

“What?”

“When I tie you up. Now, I mean.” He doesn’t answer for a moment, and she adds, “Something’s different. I can tell.”

“Scared you.”

She nods. “Didn’t know what it was.”

He thinks. Having the words in his hands doesn’t always make them easier.

“Go down faster. Easier.”

She whistles softly. “That’s good to know.”

“Still me.” How to say it. Say he stays in his body, feels all of it. Say it’s not like when he falls out of himself, when he can’t control it. Need more words for this. Maybe Doc can help him with that. “It’s good.”

She nods, slowly. “I just want to be careful. Seemed like you were okay, though.”

He nods. “Good. You?”

She smiles. “I’m good, too.” Goes quiet for a moment. “Don’t know when we’ll get to do this again, but. I’d like to. Maybe work up to more again, if you want.”

More. There’s a lot in that. Not just things they could do, but what that means. For the future. For them.

He nods. Smiles. Would like that.

He thinks about Valhalla, the bunks lining the corridor at the back of the base. The sound of Sarge’s snoring and Grif’s video games and Simmons’ banjo from up top. Not going to have much privacy there. Maybe not for a while. Can tell she’s thinking it too.

After a beat, she says, “We won’t be at Valhalla forever, anyway.”

True. He knows that, deep down, has known that. They can’t stay. Not forever.

She’s talking about after, about later. About what they will do, _will,_ open-palm hand, a small arc out starting from the temple. Means they’ll be together, after this. After Valhalla. Whenever _after_ comes.

 

When they make it downstairs, eventually, the storm's passed, a little slant of sunlight coming in the base entrance over the deep drifted snow. Almost sorry to see it. Of course they have to get back. Of course he wants to see the others, see Wash, make sure they’ll all okay. It’s just been really good here, the two of them alone together in a little dreamy bubble almost like sliptime, outside the regular routine of things. All to themselves. Might not have this again for a long time. But something good to remember. Something that’s completely his.

Carolina showers first, steaming up the back of the base, and suits back up while he takes a turn under the lukewarm water. She comes up behind him when he’s done, standing in front of the foggy, distorted mirror. Reaches up to rub the back of his head, smiles. “You’re scruffy.”

He rumbles. He knows. Didn’t bring a razor to shave. Have to take care of that when they get home.

Back to Valhalla. Home.

 

Feels good getting back into his armor fresh and clean.

He downs a bottle of water. Protein shakes make a good enough breakfast. Carolina digs a pile of them out of the ration crate. "Hey, Maine. They have strawberry."

He drinks two before they leave. Carolina goes for the vanilla. He makes a face at her and she sticks out her tongue in return and for no reason at all they both go to pieces laughing, almost falling off the crates they're sitting on in the chilly base. Carolina's outright cackling, that full-belly honking nasal laugh that scrunches up her face and doubles her over, messy morning hair falling in her eyes.

"God, I love you," she says, wheezing as she finally catches her breath, and then she looks away and quickly downs the rest of her shake.

He signs back, "Love you."

She makes a good enough show of not having seen it, but from the way the corners of her mouth turn up just slightly, he knows she did.

 

He finds himself touching things as they pack up. The ration crates, the creaky metal bunks, the mattresses they shove back into place. The soft white nylon of Carolina’s rope before he hands it back to her to coil neatly and tuck in her bag.

They have the bulkhead back open, and sunlight streams through the window of the upper level. The sky's clear, for once this far north, real blue, the sun at the crest of its little arc in the south. All across the canyon, just white, deep and untouched. Full of that particular kind of light and silence that comes after snow. Everything feeling perfect and still. Makes you want to hold your breath, stop time if you could.

He would if he could. Want to hold onto every piece of this memory. Every thread.

The snow drifted up at the entryway comes halfway up his chest. He shuffles outside, buried up to his breastplate, and looks across the canyon for a while, taking in that strange white light and perfect silence until Carolina wades out beside him. She puts her hand on his back, and looks with him and doesn't speak.

Neither of them quite want to leave, but there are a dozen reasons they need to. Every one of them a name familiar now in his hands.

Soon as they’re packed up, the base left just as they found it, they head out, Carolina at the wheel. The Warthog growls as it cuts a path through the deep snow with its big heavy-duty tires. They rumble up the narrow pass out of the canyon, turn south and head for home.


	19. Work

"Anything?" is Wash's first word to them when they get back. He meets them mid-canyon as they roll in.

"No viable transport," Carolina says. Slips right back into her clipped Squad Leader speech. "Anything they had aboard has been relocated, probably to the groundside Command center. If we want a prowler, that's probably our only option."

Wash grimaces. "Storming Command a third time and looking to come out alive isn't exactly how I was hoping to spend my weekend. We got lucky getting Epsilon out. Now that they're sending down more troops, I don't think we'll get that lucky again."

Maine agrees. "Too many." Don’t know how to say _outnumbered_ and it takes too long to spell.

Carolina sighs. "I know you're right. I just don't know what other options we have. They _will_ find us if we stay here."

Silence hangs between them. Maine's not the strategist. Not a leader. Never was. But they need a plan. He knows that. Wish he could offer something.

 

There are always things to do in Valhalla. Sign lessons with Donut and Doc, weapons and vehicle maintenance with Sarge, video games with the Grifs, training to get himself back in shape. Carolina spends more time at Red Base now, uses the holochamber as a training room and has FILSS run her old hand-to-hand programs from the _Invention_. He watches her train sometimes, in and out of armor, the spinning green targets turning red with incredible speed under her swift blows.

They spar on the grass, on sunny days. She's still being careful with him, he can tell by how she she’ll tap him out instead of taking him to the ground when he knows she could. She's always been quicker, better, and he's still pretty out of shape. But she's not pulling her punches anymore, at least. That’s good. Makes him feel better, even when he’s getting his ass handed to him.

"What are you doing for weight training?" she asks one afternoon, a couple days after they get back after thoroughly walking up one side of him and down the other in hand-to-hand. "Just push-ups? Anything else?"

Nods. Makes the pull-up motion. Sarge has a bar installed back by the bunks. Lets him use it. Still sort of worried his weight's going to tear it out of the wall.

She purses her lips. "You should probably be lifting again. Wash's got a weight room set up over at Blue."

Shrugs, and makes a face. Not allowed over at Blue.

Carolina’s mouth twists into an expression he can't quite read. "Let me talk to Wash, okay? See if he's okay with you coming over to train."

Shrug.

There's a determined pinch starting in her brow. That look when she's got an _idea._ Not going to let it go. "It's been more than a month, Maine. He's got to know you aren't a threat."

Maine shrugs uncomfortably. Maybe not that kind of threat. Maybe a different kind.

Maybe just not a friend anymore.

The thought sits like a rock in his stomach. Carolina still looks determined, though. Even hopeful. She pats his shoulder. "Just give me a chance to talk to him. Maybe he'll hear me out."

Worth a shot. Still need to talk to Wash himself. Ask him a few things.

 

Carolina doesn't waste time. Goes back over to Blue Base that day, comes back with an answer. He's in the garden with Donut, practicing food signs, when she comes striding over with purpose.

"You're good," she says. "I talked to Wash, he's fine with you using the weight room."

Maine's eyebrows shoot up. "Epsilon?"

She bites back a snicker. "Actually, he's gonna come hang out with me. We're due to catch up anyway." Her mouth twists into a wry grimace. "Sounds like he and Wash could use a break from each other."

Maine snorts.

"So just say when."

"Tomorrow?"

"Done."

 

Next morning, Carolina calls him from Blue Base. Waves as they pass each other crossing the canyon, at a safe distance. Guess Epsilon still doesn't want to get too close. All right with him.

"Oh my god, no! No more laps! What is this, boot camp?"

"Tucker," Wash is saying with exasperation. _"You are a space Marine._ You _went_ to Boot Camp."

"I went to fucking Army Basic. They gave me a bunch of tests and then shipped me out to Blood Gulch!"

"Well," Wash says. "That does explain a few things."

"What the fuck is _that_ supposed to mean?"

"Oh," Wash says, looking up. "Hey."

Maine nods. He's out of armor. Just his gym shorts and an old workout tank. Used to being unhelmeted around here, but he hasn’t spent much time fully out of armor around the Blues. Tucker doesn't bother to pretend he's not staring.

"Carolina said you wanted to use the weight room," Wash says, nodding in the direction of the base.

"Dude," Tucker says, "you mean Red Team doesn't have to do weight training? That's bullshit. I'm defecting."

"Be my guest," Wash says brightly. "Feel free to turn in your armor anytime."

"Oh, fuck no! Over my dead body!"

"Then I guess you're stuck being a Blue," Wash says, crossing his arms smugly.

"Yeah, what about Carolina? _She's_ over at Red Base all the time."

"You want to try telling her what to do?" Wash says. "Again. Be my guest."

Maine snickers as he heads inside. At his back, he can still hear Wash and Tucker.

"Seriously though, how come you don't train with him and Carolina?" he hears Tucker saying. "You guys are like, friends, right?"

He listens for the pause before Wash speaks. It's not quite as long as he thought it would be.

"Yeah," Wash says. "It's… complicated."

"Honestly? He seems pretty chill now." Tucker snickers. "More chill than you."

Maine smiles to himself.

Maybe this’ll work out after all.

 

The weight room is the main room of the base. Exactly the same shape as Red Base but a weight bench where the couch would be. No TV at Blue Base, though there is a pretty large boom box set on top of a crate.

Equipment’s a lot like what they had back on the _Invention_ , just older and more beat up. Suppose maybe they hauled this stuff back from the Offsite Storage Facility. Seems to be the usual answer to “Where’d this come from,” if not “Command.” Wash always took his training pretty seriously. It’d be like him to turn his new base into a training room.

Maine lays his towel on the bench and starts to load up the bar.

 

"Mister Maine! You came over to our base! And Agent Washington says you are allowed now! Oh, I am so happy. Would you like to play a game?"

Maine makes a weight-lifting motion with both hands, which also happens to be the sign for “exercise.” Caboose's face absolutely lights up.

"OH! We are going to play the lifting game! I know how to play that game! Agent Washington taught me! I can be your spotter!"

Nods. Why not.

Caboose does all right as a spotter, for being so excitable, though he kind of talks with his hands sometimes so he forgets to keep them in place. No big deal. Used to not having a spotter anyway. He knows how to be careful. Caboose chatters pretty constantly while Maine lifts, but he doesn't expect Maine to answer anyway so it works out.

Carolina warned him to start easy, and he does, setting down the bar when he starts to feel short of breath. Sits up from the bench, comfortably warm and sweaty enough to strip his tank off, feeling the old familiar burn in his muscles. Good to be lifting again. Forgot he missed this.

 

Almost runs straight into Tucker, heading back out the front exit. Tucker jumps back when he comes outside. Not like he’s scared though. Just surprised. Wash is nowhere to be seen.

"Wow. That looks pretty fucked up. My sword do that?"

Haven’t really spent much time with Tucker. Didn’t figure Tucker had much to say to him. But he’s eying Maine curiously, now. Looking at the scars on Maine’s chest.

He nods.

Tucker makes a thoughtful noise. "You know, you… really don't seem like the same guy from the cliff.”

Shrug.

Tucker shrugs too. "Well, I'd ask you what happened, but."

Nod.

"I should really learn that sign language stuff. I had to learn Sangheili for my dumb job. That shit was crazy. But I wanted to learn for my kid too."

Maine raises an eyebrow.

"Yes, I have an alien kid. It's a long story. Remind me to tell it to you probably never. Junior's awesome, though. Want to see him?"

Tucker doesn't wait for the nod this time, just whips a COM pad out of nowhere and taps it a few times, and a picture of a tiny Elite with bright amber eyes, looking to be sliding across the floor on roller skate sneakers. "This is him when he was little. He's getting pretty big now. This one's more recent—" In the next photo, the Elite looks more or less full-grown, except that the one standing next to him is even bigger. "That's the Arbiter, Thel'Vadam. Guess you probably don't know about all that. He's the reason the war ended—he led the Sangheili in a revolt against the rest of the Covenant. Well, most of the Sangheili." Tucker waves a hand. "It's all complicated, politics and shit. But he's a cool guy."

Tucker looks down fondly, his eyes growing a little wistful. "Junior's on Sanghelios right now, going to school. Learning swordsmanship and how to be a warrior and all that fun stuff. I was supposed to go back, and then I got stranded in the desert and well. All this shit happened. Now I'm back here and at the moment there's no ride off this rock, so, you know. I mean, it's not bad, I just miss my kid. We facetime like every day but I miss him." Tucker tucks his COM pad away, glances at Maine. "What about you? Got any family?"

Maine shakes his head. None alive. None that would claim him, or claim to miss him. It occurs to him that probably everyone who cares if he lives or dies is right here in this canyon.

Tucker nods. "That sucks, man. Or, maybe it doesn't, I don't know. I've got family back on Earth but I'm real bad at staying in touch, except with Junior. You know how it is, always some crazy shit happening."

Maine nods.

"Sometimes I feel like I shouldn't have have left him, you know? Should've brought him out here with me. But then he would've gotten trapped at the temple with me, he could've got hurt, and I felt like he'd already been through enough shit, you know? Getting kidnapped by Tex and then that whole ship crash. Right here." Tucker nods down canon, toward the crashed Pelican and Maine feels kind of a jolt in his head there, something that feels familiar, though it’s not really clear. "I just wanted him to get to be a kid like I did. Go to school, play with other kids, play basketball and roller skate and all that normal shit. Or like, the Sangheili equivalent of basketball. Like, not have to spend his whole childhood running around chased by the government and hunted by crazy supersoldiers." He glances at Maine. "No offense.”

Maine snickers. None taken.

Tucker looks away. Crosses his arms, and goes silent for a while before he speaks again. "I mean, it’s all right here. Don't tell Agent Hardass but I even like him." Maine snorts. "I just don't want to spend my whole life out here, you know?"

He doesn't, really. Makes sense for Tucker. For Maine though, this is the first place in over two years that's felt like home. And everyone he cares about, everyone who cares about him, are right here.

 

From then on he goes over every day. Carolina warns him about pushing himself too hard, and he’s careful, but it feels real good, being able to lift again. Used to never miss a day. It’s good. Makes him feel like Maine.

Caboose spots for him sometimes, chattering happily about his friends and his projects and the body he’s trying to build for Church, which doesn’t seem to be going too great. From what Maine can tell, he keeps trying to repurpose any electronic devices he can find. Sometimes, not even electronics. On his third day over, he walks in just as Tucker catches Caboose trying to solder a datapad to the hot plate. It’s just his thing, Tucker explains with a wave of his hand after he’s hustled Caboose outside, even though Maine didn’t ask. Church doesn’t even _want_ a body, he likes being a hologram. It’s just that Church _used_ to have a body, and Caboose doesn’t do well with change. It confuses him.

Can understand that.

Kaikaina is thrilled that he’s allowed over now. Catches him coming out of the base a few days later, in gym shorts, shirtless and sweaty from his workout. Everyone already knows what happened to his chest so it seems kind of pointless to worry about covering it up. “Hey, Hot Red! C’mere. I need you to bottom for me.”

Maine rumbles a laugh. The pyramid thing. Right.

 

Turns out Kaikaina has almost as a good a command voice as Carolina, who’s also here, out of armor, and looking really entertained as Kai shouts orders. Kai’s wearing a blue tank top and bright yellow short shorts that say JUICY across the backside. “Okay! Listen up, sluts! Maine, Caboose, you’re my bases. Carolina! You’re my fly girl.”

Carolina smirks. “Damn right.”

“Spotters!” Wash yells from the upper deck.

“Yeah, yeah, calm your titties! Me and Tucker are gonna spot.”

Kai and Carolina walk them through the stunt. Never done anything like this before. Carolina has, though. She explains to them how to position their hands, and how to lift so she can keep her balance. Sounds like she’s told Caboose before. He doesn’t always remember directions real well.

He and Caboose get real close, go to half-squat, hands cupped. Maine is the main base. Caboose is the supporting. Carolina lifts one leg, resting her old running shoe in his hands. She puts her hand on his shoulder. Winks. “Ready?”

Kai’s behind Carolina, hands on her waist. Tucker takes the front position, hands out, waggling his eyebrows. Carolina rolls her eyes at him, but she can’t keep from smiling.

Kai calls out a count, as the three of them sink together, then push up. It’s quick, Carolina stepping into Caboose’s hands and rising as they lift her. Kai steadies her with hands on her ankles, but Carolina doesn’t so much as wobble as she pulls herself upright and locks her legs, raising both arms in a victory pose.

“Dismount!” Kai calls and they shift Carolina’s weight to their back hands, giving their front hands to her. She bends at the waist, and hops down into the grass.

“Hot,” Kai says approvingly, and claps her hands. “Now let’s do some tossing!”

“Without _me?_ _”_ Donut says, appearing from around the boulder like damn near magic, pressing his hands dramatically to his heart.

“Major Muffin Man!” Caboose cries out with delight, clapping his hands.

Donut joins in, taking a turn at spotting. Kai shows them a few stunts with Carolina, all her moves tight and precise. She pulls off a pose Kai calls a scorpion, bending one leg up behind her and grabbing her foot with both hands over her head while Maine and Caboose support her standing leg, before executing a perfect dismount with a satisfied grin. Kai puts Tucker in the flyer position and they do a few more with him, and then with Donut, who also moves like he’s done this before, complete with a brilliant smile and what he enthusiastically calls “spirit fingers!”

To finish, they do what Kai calls a _two two one._ Tucker goes up on Caboose’s shoulders, Donut on Maine’s. Kai takes the middle base position, tossing Carolina up to be caught by Donut and Tucker.

Some of it is familiar—Maine’s done lifts and things in the field. But it’s different out of armor. And different because it’s just for fun. No objective but getting the stunt just right. After everyone dismounts, Kai claps and calls, “Nice work, team!” and looks really pleased. Makes Maine smile.

Cheerleading is fun.

 

The hornets haven’t come back since they returned. Not even a flyover. Been a few days now. Don’t really know what to think about that, and it’s obvious Wash and Carolina don’t either. Easy to overhear them talking about it, now he’s over at Blue Base every day. Carolina still wants to leave. Wash still doesn’t, but he hasn’t let his guard down either. Still not really safe here. Still feels like they’re all holding their breaths, waiting.

 

They still don’t talk. Even when he’s over, Wash always seems to be where Maine isn’t. He goes inside to lift, Wash goes outside. He goes out on the lawn to do stunts with Kai, Wash goes up on the deck. Watches from a distance.

Used to that with Simmons, over at Red Base, but Wash is…

Well, Wash isn’t Simmons.

And it bothers him.

One particular day, he looks up from the bench to see Wash in the doorway. Paused in the corridor watching. Soon as Maine spots him, he quickly moves away around the corner.

Maine sets the bar back on the rack, Caboose’s hands following his. Stares at the spot where Wash was, a minute ago.

Fuck this.

He throws his towel on the bench and follows Wash outside.

 

“Oh,” Wash says, looking up like he had no fucking idea Maine was even here. “Hey.”

Maine gives him a look.

“How’s it going?” Wash says, guardedly.

Damn it. Really wish Wash understood sign. He gestures, instead. Points to Wash, to himself, then to the upper deck. Raises his eyebrows, a question.

Wash gets it. Of course Wash gets it. Always did.

“Uh,” Wash says, his own eyes widening a little, caught off guard. “Okay. Sure.”

Gestures a one and wrist-point for _one minute,_ points to himself and the garden and back to the base and Wash nods, getting it, because of course he does. It doesn’t quite wipe the silent look of alarm from his face. But he nods toward the base and says, “Meet you up top then.”

Maine takes off for the farmhouse.

Going to need some help with this.

 

“Oh gosh!” Doc looks positively thrilled as he climbs the ramp to the top of Blue Base, a few steps ahead of Maine. “This so exciting! You two are finally talking! This is wonderful! I’m honored to be—”

“Hi Doc,” Wash says, sounding a bit pained.

“Hi, Wash!” Doc says brightly.

Wash hasn’t sat down yet, so Maine sits, and looks at him pointedly.

Wash takes a set cross-legged on the base deck, facing more down-canyon than Maine. His hair's a little on the shaggy side, needs cut, and ruffles up in the breeze.

Doc takes a seat next to Wash, facing Maine. “You two just go ahead and talk, it’ll be like I’m not even here! Just make sure to look at Maine, not at me.”

“I, uh,” Wash says, shifting position slightly. “Okay.” He opens his mouth, closes it. Hesitates. "Look. I'm bad at this."

Maine snorts. True enough. "Understand."

“So,” Wash says. “What did you want to talk about?”

He snorts. Guess it is up to him to start it. “Are you angry at me?”

Wash takes a deep breath. Fidgets with both hands. “Ah. Okay.” Looks Maine in the eye. "I’m not. I’m not _angry._ ” Beat. “I _don't_ understand, though. I don't understand a lot of things."

"Ask me." Maine signs. Doc speaks. Maine’s words.

Not like Sigma. It’s okay. This works.

Wash takes a deep breath, his jaw tightening.

"You took Tex. Epsilon's Tex, or—whatever. Up at the crash site.” Wash shoots a glance at Doc, forces his gaze back to Maine. “You _took_ her. You _implanted_ her."

Nod. Did do that.

"If you weren't still the Meta—if you didn't _want_ to be—" Wash's hands wave helplessly, his pitch rising in frustration. Same old Wash. "Why would you _do_ that?"

He signs. Doc speaks. "I wanted it to stop."

Wash squints. "That doesn't make sense."

"Wanted everything to stop."

Wash's eyes widen slightly. Understanding crosses his face slowly, like a shadow getting longer. "You wanted to die."

Nod. Not the whole of it, but close enough.

Wash lets his breath out slowly. "And what about now? You still want to die?"

Shakes his head.

Wash cocks an eyebrow. "Why not? Because of her?"

Maine gives him a look.

"What? It's a legitimate question. What's changed? How are you different now? How are you not—what you were then?" There's a slight catch in Wash's voice when he adds, "How do _I_ know you're different now?"

"You don't know how I was then. You never asked. Never _knew._ "

Wash's eyes widen a little. He looks away for a moment. "I guess—I guess not."

"Too many people. Too many memories.” Sentences. Still takes a minute, sometimes, putting them together. Setting up his referents, getting everything in the right order. But Doc’s good. Follows what he’s trying to say. “I didn't know what to be. You called me Meta. Your mission. Your rules. Too many memories. Everything mixed up."

Wash swallows, visibly. "You had all their memories."

Nod. "And their agents."

Wash stares. "You had _theirs_ , too? The—people they were implanted in?"

"Some."

Wash lets out a low whistle. "Well. That does explain some things."

Maine snorts.

“I didn't. I mean, I. I didn't think about that."

Maine shrugs. "You didn't know. I couldn't tell you."

"Still," Wash says, his voice dropping lower. "I should've… I don't know, I should've guessed. Considering." He rakes a hands through his hair. "I had one person's memories dumped in my head. Well. Like one and change. And that fucked me up pretty good. You had what… seven?"

"Nine."

"Nine. No wonder." Wash shakes his head. Goes quiet for a minute, then adds, haltingly, "You know, at Command, with the EMP, I… really didn't think either of us were gonna make it out of there alive."  
  
EMP. Nine voices screaming and going out. Memories cascading into his head, their owners no longer existing.  
  
Strange that there's a word for it.  
  
Strange that he still exists, when you come down to it.

“I remember.”

Wash blinks. “Command, you mean.”

“Yes. And before.”

Wash’s steely eyes bore into him. “Did you know I was there?”

“Yes.”

Wash thinks about that. “Could you do anything?”

“I tried. I didn’t want you to die.”

Wash goes silent. Wonder what he’s thinking about. If it’s where Maine’s mind goes, every time his hands pointed a gun at Wash, every time someone tried to pull the trigger. But from the other side. Looking down the barrel. Every time he didn’t fire, or missed.

Maybe figured Maine was just that shitty with pistols.

“Well,” Wash says, cracking a hint of a smile. “I didn’t. Neither did you.”

Maine nods. "I got out of the water. Almost died. Survived. Alone." That isn’t quite right. Maybe sometime, later, he can explain about Io and Tex, about what got him up out of the water. What kept him going when he was drowning in his own lungs. But that’s a lot. This is enough for one day.

Wash swallows.

"I changed my mind. I wanted to live. I want to be me. Maine."

Wash looks down at the base deck again.

"I want to say I didn’t know you were still in there, that any part of you was still you, but… Honestly, I just wanted to be done. Get out of prison for good and disappear. And I didn’t even think about you.” He looks back up, takes a breath. “I'm sorry."

"I’m sorry too. I fucked things up for you."

Wash cracks a smile. "Yeah, well. Seems to be the pattern with us Freelancers, huh?"

Maine snorts. Nods.

"I'm glad you made it," Wash says, haltingly. "I'm glad… you came back. You and Carolina both. For a while, I… really did think I was the only one." He nods. "It's good not being the only one."

Maine nods. “Friends?”

Wash offers him a crooked smile. "Yeah. Friends."

Doc sniffles. “Oh man, that was everything I imagined and more! You guys are friends again! I’m so happy for you!”

“ _Doc_ ,” Wash groans. _“Please_.”

Wash makes a noise of surprise when Maine leans over and throws an arm around his shoulders. His return hug is awkward, his arms flailing for a moment like they don't know where to go. But then Wash claps him on the back, and Maine feels him sigh.

"I missed you, buddy," he says, and his voice goes kinda low and rough. "I really, really missed you."

He thumps Wash on the back, twice. This, at least, he doesn’t need words to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [That time Tucker and Junior went to Sanghelios and met Thel'Vadam](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7190774).


	20. Stay

Wash shows up for sign lessons the next day.

He looks so uncomfortable sitting down in the grass and awkwardly shooing away Ruby Duchess who’s come over to investigate. Even before Doc cheerfully orders him to take off his helmet, and Wash hesitates a moment before complying, blinking twice in the afternoon sun as he sets the helmet by his side. Ruby Duchess comes right back to peck at it curiously.

It’s _really_ hard not to laugh but Maine swallows it down because Wash is here. And he’s trying. Even when Doc claps his hands and gushes about how exciting it is to have someone else learning and he’ll start Wash on the alphabet and don’t worry he’ll pick it up faster than he thinks and oh this is so wonderful, Wash! Let’s get started right away!

Donut looks huffy for about thirty seconds, and Maine and Carolina exchange a look and start using their question words to ask Donut about how his flowers are doing and Donut launches into a lengthy explanation of how you have to make sure to water the delphiniums regularly and keep the soil moist if you have less than an inch of rainfall per week and it’s been kind of a dry month and you can tell by this rainfall measuring thing they have rigged up and—

When he shoots a look at Carolina she’s smirking a little. And Maine does too.

 

Wash comes to the garden every day after that. He’s pretty far behind them, and he forgets to look at people when they’re signing sometimes, forgets and talks on Donut’s bad side (which is maybe for the best), but he’s trying. Works on his signs in his free time, too. See him sometimes out on the lawn with Caboose, both of them talking with their hands. Caboose kind of flails his hands around real big and forgets to keep his signs tight. But he knows a lot more words than Wash.

He works with Carolina, too. Maine knows enough now to catch the words when he looks up, sees them on top of Blue Base talking about _red_ and _blue_ and _stay_ and _go_ and _safe_ and _fight._

And once, he sees them practicing knife work together out on the lawn, Wash with his M11 and Carolina with the Longshore knife. Sees Wash demonstrate a takedown and Carolina follow his moves, watching intently and imitating them almost perfectly. He stops, by the entryway, and just stands and watches them for a few minutes, and they must know he’s there but they don’t stop, and something pulls in his chest but in a good way this time.

Feel something set right again, that he couldn’t even have said why it was wrong.

 

"Hey," Carolina says. “You ever wonder why we’re here?”

They’re lying side-by-side in the grass, mid-canyon, on the little hill by the biggest tree right by the midpoint of the stream’s S-curve. Looking up at the stars, cooling down after a long evening sparring session on the lawn. It’s a cool night. Good for that. They’re in undersuits, no plate, and Maine’s muscles are still faintly warm, the kind of heavy calm that comes after good hard work. Even Carolina seems relaxed, for the moment.

There's something about Valhalla at night. The shimmer of the planet’s big white moon on the lake, the stillness of their little refuge between the mountains, the blue lights of the COM towers shooting up into the dark sky, temporarily blinding out the stars. Lights on at both bases, always somebody up late.

Sleeping's hard, but night by itself isn't so bad.

“Still here, I mean.” She’s got one hand on his hand, just kind of idly rubbing circles with her thumb, and it feels nice. She tips her head to the side, looking at him. Close enough he can see the yellow lights from the farm house reflected in her green eyes. “After everything.”

He nods. “Always.”

She rolls onto her side, and rests a hand on his chest. Looks at him, but past him, almost. Her eyes far away. “You know, when I came back here… I really didn’t have any plans for after. Not saying I didn’t mean to survive it, just… I had my mission, that was it. After that point, everything just… stopped.”

Maine thinks of the Director, the pistol fallen on the floor.

"And then Wash told me about the cliff, and the fight, and…" she sighs softly, "that he never saw your body.” She drums her finger against his chest, with a wry half-smile. “Gave me a new mission.”

He smiles. Puts his hand over hers. She tangles their fingers together.

“And now here we are.” Her gaze goes long again, her smile fading. “Wash thinks maybe we’re clear, that they’ve given up on finding us. We can stay here. Be safe.”

There’s an uncertainty in her voice. Maine waits, feeling the restless movement of her thumb against his hand.

“I don’t know. He could be right.”

He cocks an eyebrow at her. Carolina sighs.

“I should be happy about that. I don’t know. I guess I’m feeling it again.”

The blank space without a mission. The point where everything just stops. He nods. “Need a mission.” Have to fingerspell _mission._ Have to remember to ask Donut for that one.

Carolina sighs. “It’s stupid.”

It’s not stupid. He gets it. Maybe don’t have that same need himself but he gets it. Valhalla can be peaceful, a safe place. Or just a place where nothing happens. Not always good.

She never could sit still. Just who she is. Wouldn’t change it, either. Not one thing about her.

 

He thinks about Sidewinder a lot, about curling up together skin to skin under blankets, no one else for kilometers around. No need to get up, talk to anyone, do anything at all. Not a lot of privacy in the bases. Not any at all really. It's nice enough out here, good being together, but they don't get a lot of time alone.

Maybe they'll have that again sometime.

For now, this is nice. Beats trying to sleep.

Most nights Carolina isn’t real talky. Done a lot of talking lately. Good but tiring. Nice to get a break. But he likes it when she talks, too. Like to hear what she’s thinking about. Realize he was always just sort of used to watching her and figuring it out on his own, what he needed to. Before. And he can still tell a lot from her face, the way she moves, the way she touches him. But you can’t get everything that way. Some things, you need words for.

 

It's too damp to be really comfortable out in the grass, so as the night cools down they move back to Red Base, padding quietly up the ramp to the upper level. Inside, Sarge and Grif snore loudly and Simmons mumbles in his sleep, but no one wakes up. Down in the main room, the dim glow of the game menu screen filters up through the transparent part of the ceiling.

He leans against the wall under the COM tower and Carolina leans against him and he works his fingers into her hair and rubs her scalp with his fingertips, enjoying her contented sighs and she way she shifts slight against his chest, moving her head so he can get all the spots, behind her ears and down to the nape of her neck, under her neural port. Her hair’s down to the bottom of her shoulderblades now, and grown out a lot at the roots. Wonder where on this planet you could find hair dye. He knows she likes it red.

She peels herself off him after a bit, taps his shoulder and gestures him to move off the wall so she can get behind him. Her hands are cool when they touch his scalp, and then warm to his skin as she massages, from the crown of his head down behind his ears and all over until he almost moans with quiet pleasure, melting into a dreamy relaxation. Her hands move down, rubbing his neck and working out the knots in his muscles, carefully working around his neural port.

He starts to feel like he could just fall asleep here, when she rests her palm casually on his throat, and then all his nerves come awake at once. Still calm, but alert.

Her thumb is on the collar of his suit right over the seal. His breath quickens a little. Carolina's breath is suddenly hot at his ear, whispering. "No one out here, if we can stay quiet."

He nods. That he can do.

 

They don't make it all the way out of their suits. Hands slid under the black mesh, groans swallowed hot against each other’s mouths and breathed into each other's skin. Carolina comes twice on his hand, riding two fingers knuckle-deep in her, grinding into his palm, gasping and biting his lip.

They finish flushed and smothering laughter into each other's shoulders. Hard to say what’s so funny. Just is. Carolina seals his suit back up to his throat, lets his hand linger there under his chin for a moment, and smiles. Kisses him, wet and slow and lazy and he kisses her back, thinking about Sidewinder and the taste of her.

Need more privacy for that. But this was good.

Could go down to bed, it's getting toward 0400, but they sit up for a while leaning on each other, fingers tangled together, looking up at the stars and the bright smear of blue that bursts into the sky at intervals.

 

He wakes sometime just after sunrise, the horizon just starting to turn pink. Carolina stirs next to him, grunting as she rolls herself upright and twists her back one way and the other, rolling her shoulders. Feel stiff from sleeping upright, leaning against the base of the COM tower. Back cracks when he moves. Carolina grunts again. "Downstairs?"

Downstairs is good. Get some sleep in a real bed. Wish they could both fit in his bunk. Not like anyone here would care.

Not like it's a secret.

Her helmet's on his bunk, where she left it earlier after training, and she scoops it up to tuck it under one arm. Stops. Squints at the HUD. Sets it over her head.

Her voice is muffled, but unsealed, he can still hear her. Watch her spine go tight as a wire. "Oh my god."

 

_A message to the former agent of Project Freelancer codenamed "Carolina."_

_Agent Carolina:_

_I do hope this transmission finds you well. My name is Malcolm Hargrove, Chairman of the UNSC Oversight Subcommittee. I make contact with you today regarding your efforts in locating the former Director of Project Freelancer, Dr. Leonard Church. As you may be aware, Dr. Church's special project has been under investigation by this committee for the past year, and thanks in part to your own efforts, his whereabouts have been determined and his remains recovered._

_For your role in bringing closure to this investigation, I am very interested in making your acquaintance. Rest assured that you will face no repercussions for undertaking this mission without official authorization. Your efforts in locating Dr. Church have spared this committee great time and expense, and are to be commended._

_I propose to meet with you, if you will accept the invitation, as well as your current associates. Upon your acceptance of this invitation, transport will be dispatched to collect you and your associates, and transport you to Sydney, Australia on Earth, where you will all receive commendation and an honorable discharge from the UNSC Marine Corps, allowing you to conclude your military service and return home._

_Your prompt response is appreciated._

_Sincerely,_

_Malcolm Hargrove_  
_Chairman to the UNSC Oversight Subcommittee_

 

Glad Donut taught him how to say, "What the fuck."

"What the hell," says Carolina out loud. She’s downloaded the message to her datapad to let him read it. Stepped outside to talk again, where they won't wake up the Reds. "What the _hell."_

She looks up. "They were tracking me the whole time. They had to be. I can't believe… I should have known."

"Not your fault."

They get a lot of mileage out of those signs.

Carolina sighs.

"We need to talk to Wash. Later. For now, go get some sleep."

 

"I don't like it," Wash says instantly. No surprise there.

"I don't either," says Carolina wearily. Doesn’t look like she slept real well. Maine didn’t either. Got in a few restless hours. Headed over to Blue Base soon as he woke up. He’s halfway into a strawberry shake, one of the stash they brought back from Sidewinder. Carolina’s got a steel cup of instant coffee, black.

"The _Chairman?_ You know who that is, right? The one who got us sent to _prison?"_ He glances at Maine. "He didn't have the evidence to prosecute the Director, so he figured he’d just throw the book at me instead. For _destruction of protected classified military property. Dereliction of duty._ " Wash snorts. "Oh, and treason. Can't forget the treason."

Maine snorts. Least Wash got a trial.

"So what do we do?" Carolina says. "This came through on my personal channel. He knows we're here, Wash. He has to know."

Silence hangs between them.

Wash sighs. "Can't believe we got a prison sentence and you get a commendation."

"I get it," Carolina says sharply. "It's not fair, and I'm _sorry._ But he's offering us a way out of here. A chance to go home."

"Home," Wash says, ponderously. "What's that even mean for us? Where would we go?"

"I don't know, somewhere we're not trapped. Where we don't have to hide, where we can just…" Carolina gestures helplessly. "I don't know. Live, I guess."

She doesn't sound too sure about the idea herself. Maine can't say he is either. Like it here in the canyon. Come to feel like home here. But Carolina's not wrong. It would be better not to be in hiding. To be safe.

"We can't make this decision for the others," Wash says finally. "The Reds and Blues. We're the whole _reason_ they're here. They deserve to have a say in this. Not just be dragged along with us again."

Carolina nods. "Well, we'd better decide soon. Let's get everyone together so we can figure this out."

 

"I'm going to regret this," Carolina mutters as the Reds and Blues convene mid-canyon by the garden.

He might, too. Still tired, and there's a lot of noise and he kind of wants to just curl up in the grass and go to sleep. Could sleep in the garden. Doc and Donut wouldn't mind. Carolina and Wash can make the hard decisions. Leave it to them.

But when he looks at Carolina, there's an uncertainty in her eyes that hasn't been there. Not the intense look she gets when she makes a decision. When she's sure of something.

Something like fear, maybe.

He moves closer, slips his hand into hers. Gives her the double squeeze. She takes a deep breath, lets it out, and squeezes back, one two.

 

It takes a good twenty minutes just to get the letter read and explained to everyone. Caboose wants to know what _associates_ means, which Wash answers by saying it just means _friends_ , and Simmons cuts in with a _Technically_ _—_ which eats another few minutes.

"I mean, _obviously_ we're not doing this, right?" Epsilon says, glowing over Caboose's shoulder. "Because it's clearly a fucking trap? We're all on _that_ page, right?"

"No one's turning you in to the Chairman," Carolina says.

"What, you think he's just gonna ask nicely—"

"NO ONE IS TURNING CHURCH INTO A CHAIR," Caboose bellows.

"Awesome," Grif says, yawning. "Wake me up when you figure it out."

"Commendation?" Kai says. "That sounds important. You think we'll get to be on TV?"

"Honorable discharge, you say?" Sarge muses. "On the one hand, the chance to be honored for our brave service to the glorious Red Army!"

"Sarge,” Wash says, “you _know_ the Red Army is fake."

"But on the other, how can I bear to end my illustrious military career! I had so many plans—"

"To do _what?_ _”_ Grif says. “Play Capture the Flag and not lose?"

"I never even shot Grif!"

"Sir,” Simmons says, “I _don't_ think shooting your own men is a good end to an illustrious military career."

"Never got to see anyone else shoot him either! Hey there, Agent Washington. Before we leave, can you do me a favor and shoot Grif?"

"So we can go home? Like we can leave here?"

There's an earnestness in Tucker's voice that makes everyone else shut up.

"Yes," Wash says. "If the offer's genuine, yes. You'd be free to go wherever you wanted."

"Then why are we even talking about this? Of course we should go! Junior's out there on Sanghelios and I haven't been back to see him in _months_. You all can do whatever you want. If there's a ride out of here, I'm taking it."

"Tucker," Wash says. Doesn't sound like he's protesting, exactly.

Tucker looks at him, as serious as Maine's ever seen him. "It's my kid, Wash."

"I know," Wash says. "Carolina?"

Carolina spreads her hands. "I can go or not go. If I go, any of you can decide whether you want to go, or stay here. It's up to you."

"I'm going," Tucker says. "Fuck yeah I'm going."

Kaikaina gets kind of a wistful look in her dark eyes. "It _would_ be nice to see home again. I miss the beach."

"There's a beach here," Simmons points out.

Kai huffs. "No, there isn't.”

"You _are_ going, right?" Tucker's almost bouncing.

"I," Carolina says, and glances at Maine. "I need to think about it, too. Just wanted to bring everyone up to speed."

"You have to," Tucker says. "Please. Come on. You can't just tease us like that! Bow chicka bow wow. But seriously!"

"I'll figure it out," Carolina says, looking a little overwhelmed. "Soon. By the end of today. I'll give you an answer. I just—need to think about some things."

 

"The Chairman knows who you are," Carolina says, "doesn't he?"

Maybe? Probably. Never met him. Wash did. Said that was who put them in prison. Don't know.

"Maybe."

Carolina lets a long, slow breath out. Nods.

"Maybe I shouldn't have told them until I decided. God, if I say no, Tucker's going to be crushed."

She drops her head into her hands. They're sitting by the garden, taking the moment to themselves now that everyone’s gone back to their bases. Maine feels exhaustion creeping up fast.

Down at Red Base, Sarge is outside, working on the Warthog. Up at Blue, Tucker’s sitting in the grass with his datapad, probably talking to his kid. Maine’s seen him a couple of times. The kid sure is an alien, leathery-skinned and amber-eyed but speaking perfect English. He and Tucker switch fluidly between English and what must be Sangheili. Not that Maine would know. He thinks about Tucker’s brown eyes lighting up when he showed off his pictures.

Carolina lifts her head. "I'm not going without you. And I'm not taking you without a guarantee that you're safe. I _won't_ let them put you back in there, Maine. Wash either. I _promise._ "

He nods. Funny, he didn't really think about that. Didn't think it might not be safe. Didn't think somebody might be waiting to take him, and Wash. Put him back in the box.

Knew she'd never let that happen. She just wouldn't.

But she's worried. He touches her hair lightly, runs his finger through it, combing gently, letting his fingertips massage her scalp. She sighs, some of the tension in her spine softening.

 

In the end, he heads back to Red Base for a nap and Carolina comes with him and he doesn’t ask questions, just lies down on his side on the bunk and crams himself back against the wall as far as possible. It's a tight fit but there's just enough room for her to climb in, long as neither of them move at all. He rests one arm over her hip and she laces her fingers through his, and he knows, even now, that they'll be okay.


	21. Go

"I accepted the offer.”

"You did," Wash says.

They’re on the upper deck of Blue Base, just the three of them. Know they’ve been doing this for a while, Wash and Carolina—talking things over in private before they talk to the others. Carolina says, Up top? and Wash nods like he knows what that means and they go up. Now Maine comes too.

Don’t always have much to say, but it’s nice to be included.

"I didn't say who was coming with me,” Carolina adds quickly. “I didn’t mention anyone by name. So anyone who wants to stay here can stay.” She pauses for a beat, then adds, “Including you, if you want."

Wash nods slowly.

"But I also asked for a guarantee of safety for everyone who accompanies me. Full immunity, full pardons, all charges dropped."

Wash's eyebrows shoot up. "And he agreed to that."

"Yes. In writing, for what that’s worth. He’s really hammering on the whole ‘stopping corruption’ angle. There's gonna be a whole press thing on Earth, I guess."

Wash grimaces. “Still feels like we’re being used for something.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Carolina makes a face in return. “Military politics. I’d almost prefer a trap, to be honest. Fighting I can handle. But _politics._ ”

Wash nods. “I hear that. But I guess if politics means shoving us in front of some cameras and letting us walk…”

Carolina nods. “Yeah.”

"Fair enough," Wash says. "Well, we'll talk to the group. See what everyone wants to do. Let them make their choices."

 

Tucker, of course, is the first to say yes. Then Kaikaina, and because she's going, her brother’s going, and because he’s going, Simmons is going, and Sarge mutters something gruffly about sticking with his men and Simmons looks about as happy as Maine’s ever seen him.

Caboose looks at Wash with big eyes. "Agent Washington?"

Wash looks at Caboose. Then at Tucker. Then at Carolina and Maine. Then back to Caboose.

"Yes," he says finally. "I'm going, Caboose."

"Oh," says Caboose. "All right. Then I will go too."

Everyone looks at Epsilon, hovering over his shoulder.

"Yeah, yeah," Church says impatiently. "Shut up. Of course I'm going with you."

"Donut?" says Simmons.

Donut and Doc look at each other. "Gosh," Donut says, "I really don't know! I hate to just up and leave, you know? We've really built something here, and the crops will be coming in, and…"

"You should go."

Doc's softspoken words bring everyone to silence, but he doesn't look at any of them, just at Donut as his hands move in fluent sign. "I can hold down the fort here. There are no charges pending against me, remember? I'm neutral."

Donut's brown eyes get really big. And sad. "Frank… I can't just _leave_ you here all alone."

"I won't be alone," Doc says brightly. "I'll have Lopez!"

"Dios mio," says the robot head on the scarecrow.

"Go," Doc urges. "Go to Earth and get your immunity. You'll have a clean slate. Then you can come back to me."

And just like that, it's happening.

They're leaving Valhalla.

 

The Grifs want to go back to Earth, back to where they grew up, and it sounds like Simmons and Sarge and Donut will be going too, at least to visit. Tucker's already planning his trip out to Sanghelios to see his son.

“It’s really safe for you out there?” Wash asks.

“Oh yeah, it’s chill. I’m an ambassador, remember? And Junior’s kind of a big deal. The Arbiter welcomed us personally. There’s still fighting in some places but you’re pretty much fine as long as you stick near Vadam Keep. Hell, I could probably get you guys in for a visit too, if you want.”

“Sanghelios, huh?” Carolina sounds curious. “Kind of a haul, isn’t it?”

“I mean yeah, it’s a few weeks by slipspace, but who cares?” Tucker shrugs. “Where are you in a hurry to be, anyway?”

Carolina cracks a smile. “I… guess nowhere.”

“Exactly. So you should come. It’ll be fun. I can show you guys the sights.”

“ _After_ Honolulu?” Kai cuts in. “I mean, you guys _are_ coming, right?”

“Fuck yeah!” says Tucker. “I’ve never been to Hawaii.”

Carolina’s eyes go a little wide. Probably didn’t think she was invited. Maine wasn’t sure either. Though when he thinks about it, about Kai, maybe he should’ve realized.

“I—yeah,” Carolina says, pulling herself together. She shoots a glance at Maine, and he nods. “I’d—love to see the islands, actually.”

Kai claps her hands. “Awesome!”

Caboose has family on an Inner Colony moon. Been talking excitedly about them all morning to anyone who will listen, and seems to have decided at some point that Wash is going with him to meet his sisters, who seem to increase in number every time he talks about them. Wash doesn’t protest, not even with Epsilon coming along, as Caboose refuses to be separated from his best friend. He invites Donut to come too, which quickly turns into inviting everyone, and by the end of the day Maine can’t keep anyone’s itinerary straight in his head. Actually, not sure they’re going to be splitting up at all.

No one’s said for sure they won’t come back here later. They aren’t really talking about it. Get the feeling they aren't all sure themselves.

He hasn't asked Carolina where they'll go. After. Come back here, live their lives working in the garden and playing Capture the Flag? Re-enlist, if any outfit'll have them? Park it on Earth or a colony somewhere and give civilian life a whirl? Haven't been a civilian since he was sixteen. Don't know what the fuck you do with yourself. Though that's not so different from this. Maybe just live, day by day. Find things to do, words in your hands or hands in the dirt.

Maybe just live.

 

"Hey, Maine."

Doc's come to sit beside him at the back of the base, by the beach. The beach that isn't really a beach, just stony shoreline tucked between the mountains.

Maine nods a hello.

"Going home, huh? That must be exciting for you."

Shakes his head. Earth's not home. Place he was born, grew up, that turned to glass a long time ago. Good riddance probably.

"You've been doing better," Doc says. "Seems like it, anyway."

Nod. Hasn't been too bad. Still sleep like shit, still fall out of himself sometimes, but it's not the worst. Not like it could be. He manages.

"Maine, we're friends, so I'm telling you this as a friend, not just a medic. Back on Earth—well, anywhere populated really—you’ll have access to like, doctors and stuff. And I think you should probably find one."

Maine grunts. Don't like doctors very much.

“I mean, it doesn’t have to be a traditional doctor. You could find a naturopath!” Doc makes a thoughtful noise. “I don’t know if that’s covered by the VA, though.”

Maine snorts. Don’t even know what that word means.

“You know, I was almost one of those! Well. Like five semesters away. Sophomore year didn’t go so well for me.” Doc sighs, a little wistfully. “Ah well. What I’m trying to say is… you should find someone that can help you, Maine. Not just for the injuries, for like—” Doc taps two fingers against the side of his head, “all the stuff up here, you know?"

Ah.

Doc pats him on the shoulder. “Just think about it.”

Huh.

Maine claps him on the shoulder in return, then thinks better of it and throws both arms around Doc. Doc hugs him back unselfconsciously. "Take care out there, big guy, okay? And don’t be a stranger."

 

They don’t really talk about _home,_ the three of them. He and Carolina and Wash _._ Earthers, both of them. Forget that a lot. Wash was a military brat. Grew up all over the place. Carolina grew up in Texas. (Texas. Oh. Never really put that one together before.)

The Grifs are from Earth, and Donut, and Tucker. Caboose has his moon. Sarge doesn’t talk about home. Simmons either. And Epsilon… Epsilon was born on the _Invention_. If you can call that being born.

Never occurred to him before but Epsilon doesn’t have a home either. Or not one he’d ever want to see again. Know what that’s like.

 

Epsilon'll have to keep a low profile on Earth. The Chairman's promise of freedom doesn't extend to him, and they're all pretty sure that getting caught carrying around a stolen piece of Freelancer tech—which is what Church is—would nullify their own arrangements pretty quick.

Carolina goes off for some time alone with Church. Don't know what they talk about. Maine isn't real fond of the little blue asshole, any more than Wash is really, but he knows Epsilon helped Carolina find the Director. Stood with her when no one else did. Like Tex did for him. Epsilon means a lot to her. And that's enough.

When they come back, Epsilon jumps back into Caboose's armor without a word, and Carolina pats Caboose on the shoulder and tells him to take good care of Church for her.

 

Maine goes down to the holochamber to say good-bye to FILSS.

"I’ll miss you," he signs. "Thank you."

"You are welcome, Agent Maine. Thank you as well. I do hope you enjoy safe travels and a pleasant voyage to Earth."

She doesn't sound unhappy. That's good. They did offer to take her, but she said she was happy to have a system with so much processing power, and Doc and Lopez would be good company, and she would prefer to stay. Didn't want to be locked away in a storage chip again, Maine figures. Can understand that.

 

When he comes up, Grif is in the main room packing up his games. Got the game console packed up in a carry case already.

“Hey man,” Grif says, nodding toward the back wall. “If you want the Grifshot back, it’s all yours.”

The brute shot.

Maine stops in front of his old weapon mounted on the wall. Thinks about that. Thinks about holding it again, the weight and balance of it in his hands. His hands that are his again. Remember Wash, saying _That_ _’s a good look._ Remember wielding it as himself. As Maine.

He turns and raises his eyebrows at Grif. Is he sure?

Grif shrugs. “What am I gonna do with it? You better believe after I get my discharge, I am never picking up a weapon again. I am ready to _chill_.”

Maine smiles. Nods. Lifts the weapon off the wall, hefts it in his hands. Swings it onto his back.

His again.

 

Don't quite know how to feel.

He's never been to Earth. Never figured he would, for that matter. Unless it all came down to Earth in the end—and it did, it turns out, but he wasn't there. Wasn't out being a soldier, fighting for humanity’s survival. Was locked in a box, broken and ripped apart inside. Not even sure of who he was.

He knows now. Good to know that.

There's not much packing to do. What clothes they have, Carolina's datapad, her ropes and the figure 8, the knife from Longshore. They share a single duffel. Seems silly to take two when all of their things fit in one.

Maine feels his hands fill with questions they can't answer yet. Where are they going after. Who does he say he is. What happens next.

In the morning a dropship will land and shuttle them up to a troop carrier passing through the system, the _Hand of Merope,_ bound for Earth. There’s going to be a big thing when they get there, some kind of press junket about stopping military corruption. Can tell Carolina doesn’t like that much. Wash either. But it’s part of the deal. After that, exit processing and formal discharge from the UNSC Marine Corps.

Not going to be a soldier anymore. Still don't know what to think about that. Haven't been Andriy Ivanovich in years, and that's by choice. Never liked that name anyway. Liked Maine better then. Like it better now.

Guess that's who he'll be.

A pardon, if the agreement holds. No prison, no box. Still. What happened doesn't go away. The blood on his hands. What the body of Agent Maine did—whoever was driving it—doesn't go away.

He spells their names to himself again, the ones he knows. North. South. Garfield. Sydney. Waldorf. Dunn. The Betas from Valhalla—Hampshire, Missy, Kansas, Nevada. The Blues at Rat's Nest—Miller the only name he knows. The Reds at Zanzibar—Burke. Tubbs. One he doesn't know. The guards at Command. More than he can count.

Don't know how not to carry that. Might live in his body forever, like the ghosts in his head.

But at the end of the day, his hands are still his hands, and he is still Maine.

 

With the war over, lots of places to go. Strange to think about that. His whole life the reach of human-occupied space has been slowly constricting, as the outers went one by one, the grip of the Covenant tightening down and down. Always sort of felt like it would come down to that in the end, Earth—the last light still burning, then snuffed out.

Except here they are, mostly at peace, and spreading back out across the stars. Colonies rebuilding what they can out of the ashes. Humanity breathing in.

For better or worse: alive.

Seems like they’ll all be hanging out on Earth for a while. See Hawaii, maybe some other places. Then Caboose’s moon. Then Sanghelios.

After that, well. Could go anywhere. Years of his world narrowed to a single planet. Smaller than that—to a dark, smothered space in his own mind. Then a single room. Then blown open again, and now the whole galaxy open to him. Carolina jokes about just getting on a transport at random, seeing where they end up. Not sure she's joking. Not sure he doesn't like the idea himself.

Of course Sanguinus II will still be here. Valhalla, and their little sanctuary nestled in the mountains. Doc and Donut and their farm. The waterfall running to the lake, running toward the sea. They can come back if they want to.

Maybe good to go somewhere else for a while. See new places.

 

They don’t sleep. Both of them way too wound up. Plenty of time to sleep on the transport, anyway. Carolina passes the time puttering restlessly around Blue Base and then around Red, packing and unpacking things they don’t really need, tidying up the kitchens they won’t be using again. She plays a round of _Ringworld_ with Grif, loses, paces a circuit around the base, goes down to the holochamber. Wonder if she’s saying good-bye to FILSS, too.

Later, she comes and meets him up on top of Red. He’s been up here for a while, just looking at the stars. Last night to look up at the Sanguinus sky, making up constellations out of the mass of stars. Last night to watch the COM towers fire blue into the sky. Last night to see the slivered reflection of the planet’s waning moon on the water.

“Sorry,” she says, for no reason, taking a seat beside him. “Just hard to sit still.”

He knows. It’s okay.

"Doc talked to you?" she says. She signs as much as she can now. Sometimes she doesn’t bother speaking when it’s just the two of them, unless she's really stumped for a sign. Kind of nice. Feels that much more private between them, even though no one can hear over their private channel anyway. "About a doctor." She glances in the direction of the farm shack, makes a face. “A real one.”

He nods.

"What do you think about that?"

Not sure about that. Doctors. Remember being rolled under blinding lights, remember not being able to move, remember needles and tubes and shit stuck under his skin.

But also Nick from the _Invention_ bringing him his helmet. Medics who kept him from bleeding out after Volutia, surgeons who put his throat back together, kept him alive.

Don't know about doctors. Don't know if they can put his head back together now, what's still broken. _The stuff up here,_ like Doc said.

"Maybe."

Carolina nods. "Maybe good."

"Maybe good."

"You can think about it."

He is thinking about it. Thinking about her, too. About their late nights sitting up together, avoiding sleep. About the ghosts in his head that wake up in the dark. And hers too, even if they’re a different kind. What she still doesn’t talk about.

_All the stuff up here, you know?_

"You too?"

Carolina's eyes widen slightly. She gives her head a quick shake.

“I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”

He makes a face at her.

Carolina swallows. Doesn’t answer for a moment. Think maybe he should drop the whole thing, let it go for now. But then she speaks up again.

"I'm not. I mean." She sighs. "I'm not real good at the whole. Talking about stuff."

Maine cocks an eyebrow. She scrunches up her face in response, covers her face with one hand, then looks back at him with a wry twist of her mouth. "Yes, I am aware of the irony. Thanks."

Maine pulls another face, but takes her hand.

"I know it's hard for you too," she says quietly. "I didn't mean it like that.”

Shakes his head. Touches her face with his hand. Thinks of her shaking in her sleep, thinks of the brief look of frozen terror in her eyes. Thinks of the set of her jaw, everything she holds so tight.

Shouldn't always have to be the one to take care of him. Should help each other.

He signs. "Want you to be okay too."

Her face crumples for a split second before she rights herself. "I'm okay."

Maine crosses his arms, giving her a look of exasperation.

"I don't need help,” she says tightly. “What happened to me was nothing compared to—"

Maine groans aloud. Carolina breaks off mid-sentence, drops her hands.

"Don't."

She recovers quickly, and makes a face at him. He makes one right back.

"Think about it. Okay?"

She takes a deep breath, and the look in her eyes is nothing short of terror. His Carolina. Fearless on the battlefield and terrified of this.

"Okay," she says, and he squeezes her hand.

 

They watch the news feeds on her datapad for a while, just for something to look at. Lot of things happening out there. Colonies rebuilding. Reach is going to be re-terraformed, they say, though it’ll be a few decades before it’s habitable. In the outers, still some skirmishes with Covenant holdouts, but nothing like the scale of the war they knew.

The war they knew, the galaxy they knew, isn’t really there anymore. If he went under for two years and came out different, the whole galaxy’s different now too.

Don’t know what to expect, but maybe that’s okay. Like starting all over again.

Carolina stretches out on her back, looking up at the sky starting to lighten in the southeast. Weariness lined into her face, but still wide awake. He curls up at her side, rests his head on her chest and she lays her palm over the back of his head. Feel calmer now. Couldn’t stay still himself earlier, even not trying to sleep. Restlessness in all his limbs, mind racing over what’s going to happen tomorrow, heart feeling like it’s beating too fast.

Better now. It’s not sleep. But it’s all right.

 

It’s busy in the morning, once everyone’s up and moving and hauling all their gear and luggage out to mid-canyon. Noisy. Lot of running around and everyone talking over the radio and it's kind of a lot. He mutes the open channel for while, goes to sit by the water. But even there, he feels restless.

Not home anymore, maybe. At least not for right now.

A shadow takes shape in the morning sky. A ship in orbit, and a big one. Their ride off this rock.

Soon.

“Aircraft detected,” FILSS chirps in his ear. “Two Pelican dropships inbound to this location.”

 

"Hell of a way to go home,” says Wash.

They can see the birds descending through orbit now. Two dark flecks in the sky, growing bigger. They’re all gathered mid-canyon now, watching. Kai’s doing handsprings in full armor while Caboose claps. Doc and Donut are arm in arm. Simmons is pacing, Grif sitting on a crate. Sarge is over by the farm shack saying some kind of impassioned good-bye to an unimpressed Lopez. Tucker stands watching the sky, restless, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Maine stands with Carolina, hand in hers, and Wash close by.

He nods. Hell of a way.

Wash shoots a glance at both of them. “You guys given any thought to after?”

Maine waves a hand ambivalently. Given it plenty of thought. Don’t have an answer though.

“Got some time to figure it out,” Carolina says. “What with Sanghelios and Caboose and all.” She pauses, tilts her head. “Did he ever say _which_ moon, exactly?”

Wash snorts, not unkindly. “He was a little fuzzy on the details.”

“I’m sure we’ll figure out,” Carolina says, amusement in her voice.

“So you are coming?” Wash says.

Carolina laughs. “I’m pretty sure _everyone_ is coming.”

Wash laughs too. “Caboose wouldn’t want it any other way.”

“You going to Sanghelios?”

“Against all my instincts,” Wash says wryly, “yes.”

“It’s weird, right?” Carolina shrugs. “Gotta admit, I’ve always wondered what they’re like. You know. The Covenant, their homeworlds. Their… _civilians_.”

Wash makes a thoughtful noise. “I guess, yeah. Still hard to think of them that way.”

Maine nods. True.

“What about you?” Carolina says. “After that.”

A beat passes.

“I don’t know,” Wash admits. “I… haven’t really figured that out myself.”

Carolina nods slow. Can see her inhale, working up to say what she’s going to say. “Could be good to stick together. Maybe find a way to do some good out there.”

Wash tilts his head. “What’d you have in mind?”

She shrugs. “Honestly, I’m not sure yet. War left one hell of a mess, though. What colonies are left, there’s going to be a lot of work to do.”

“Might be up for that,” Wash says. “Assuming this all goes according to plan, which—well, you know how plans tend to go for us.”

Maine snorts. True enough.

“Well,” Carolina says, amusement creeping back into her voice, “we might just have to improvise.”

Wash lets out a good-natured groan. “You know how I feel about that.”

Maine snickers.

Carolina takes a deep breath, looks long into the horizon. Not at the dropships. Something further. Something she’s turning over in her head, trying to figure out.

“Freelancer was supposed to be this big, important thing,” she says finally. “It was supposed to be something _good._ Saving the human race.”

True. Never figured that was anything less than a worthy goal.

“And look what it turned into,” she adds, her voice dropping to a lower, pained note. “Look what it turned _us_ into.”

Wash nods slowly.

Carolina hesitates. Trying to find the words. Maine squeezes her hand.

“I’d just like to find that again,” she says finally. “What I thought Freelancer was, you know? Something good.”

Good. Not sure what that even means. Never was. But it's a thing she believes in, he realizes. Something he didn’t understand about her, maybe, until now. Good is something she believes in. Not win or lose, not alive or dead, friend or enemy, but _good._

And maybe she's right.

“I don’t know if we can get all the way back to good,” she adds. “But we can try.”

The dropships are close now, close enough to hear the roar of engines, feel the heat kicking off them as they descend toward the open middle of the canyon. Two Pelicans, black against the sky, come to take them to whatever comes next.

He squeezes Carolina's hand twice, and she squeezes back, one two.

END

**Author's Note:**

> When I began this project over five years ago, Mainelina was barely a ship. Though still a rare pair, it’s been a delight to see interest and fanworks for this ship grow.
> 
> I want to thank especially every reader who took a chance on this story despite being unsure about the pairing or the premise or both. It means a lot to me to know you took a leap of faith on my writing. 
> 
> I am very much still writing fic for RvB and have some projects on the horizon that I’m very excited about. Follow me at [anneapocalypse on tumblr](http://anneapocalypse.tumblr.com) for fic updates and meta and assorted fandom shenanigans, or follow [annefiction](http://annefiction.tumblr.com) for just the fic updates.
> 
> Thank you so much for coming on this journey with me, every one of you. It’s been amazing. I hope you’ve enjoyed reading this story even half as much as I’ve enjoyed writing it.
> 
> All the best,  
> Anne


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